


Spirits of a Different Kind

by Elvaile



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alchemy, Anxiety, Blood, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Character Development, Cole is the best, Cuddling & Snuggling, Death, Dreams and Nightmares, Eventual Romance, F/M, Graphic Description, I wonder if Thedosians know anything about chemistry..., I'm using this as an excuse to practice present tense, I've never written a fanfic before, Panic Attacks, Romance, Science-y takes on alchemical processes that I may or may not have pulled out of my own backside, Scopophobia, Slow Build, Sort of Lore-Friendly, Strong Language, Tags May Change, The scientific method but in Thedas, Touch-Starved, Touching, Unnecessarily Graphic Description, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:21:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 61,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26653591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvaile/pseuds/Elvaile
Summary: Evuna thought she would forever wander the world that rejected her, barely scraping along by selling alchemical works and ingredients to whoever would buy them, and never resting her head in the same place more than once.But when the world started to fall apart, with a whole in the sky and templars fighting apostates and bandits at every crossroad, she knew she had to find somewhere safe--the Inquisition was her best bet.
Relationships: Solas & Original Character(s), Solas & Original Female Character(s), Solas (Dragon Age)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 56
Kudos: 115





	1. A Hold in the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> So...  
> I have never written a fanfiction before... and the mere thought of putting something I wrote onto the internet makes my nerves want to explode.  
> But never mind that! I would like any readers who happen across this work to keep in mind that I will probably never update regularly. It all depends on how my life is going, and whether or not I actually have the drive to write more (not to mention the ever-occurring writer's block). I understand that that isn't necessarily something people want to hear, but I think it's better to say it now.  
> This work will probably be a slow-going thing. I'm planning on focusing on the plot I have in mind, and I do plan on having Solas be a major part of it (including some romance, once I'm feeling brave enough to post something like that... but no smut though, I'm the least qualified person, nor am I brave enough, to write such a thing).  
> So anyway, I hope you like it! (If not, then please don't yell at me I'm trying my best)  
> Aaaaand one more thing: Keeping Secrets by ElvenSemi is amazing and it has been a huge inspiration for me; it helped give me the confidence to write something of my own.

It’s difficult to ignore the pain in my bare feet. My toes are blue and the skin beneath my heel is cracking, but I still follow closely behind the merchant caravan. Just as I had for the entire trek up these mountains. I pull my ratty green cloak tighter around me, careful not to let the hood fall and expose my long ears to the biting cold. It does little for my nose, however.

I keep my eyes to the ground, watching every step I take to pass the dreadful time. Sometimes I see a blade of grass poking through the snow, desperate to continue living. Other times I only see the footprints of the booted humans and the narrow straight lines of the two wagons. I was lucky that they let me follow them; they don’t seem all too fond of rabbits. Even when I asked for nothing else and promised not to be a hindrance, they still sent scowls in my direction. Perhaps my presence is a hindrance in itself? I don’t know. I can’t bring myself to care enough to find out. Not while a chance of safe salvation awaits me.

The path of frozen dirt and snow steadily morphs into one of stone. My feet complain as I step onto the cold hard surface, missing the soft crunchiness of the previous path. At least they might have a chance to dry now.

I force myself to look up, with a crick in my neck adding to my misery,

and it’s beautiful.

A grey fortress of stone, with towers, battlements, and even a bridge across the valley between where I stand and the mountain where the fortress reaches to the clouds. The sheer size of the structure is intimidating, even from this distance, but I know that I will be safe on the other side of those melodramatic walls.

I hope.

I follow the caravan over the bridge, and my stomach drops when I risk a glance over the edge. That was a bad idea on my part. Instead, I snap my head (painfully, with my neck in its stiff state) back to the looming building ahead. I had overheard some of the merchants talking about it at some point in the journey--apparently it’s called Skyhold.

Such a fitting name, seeing how it looks like it floats in the sky.

I hear some shouting from above, and the giant gate opens for us. I look all around myself, with a frostbitten hand holding my hood in place, and stare in awe as the snowy bridge suddenly transforms into a grassy yard with walls at every point. It’s warmer here as well… was that because of magic?

The caravan and its respective merchants proceed further into the hold and I splinter off to stand by the closest wall without a clue of what I’m supposed to do next.

Lots of people join this strange Inquisition every day, but no one goes around telling others how they went about doing it! Maybe they showed up one day just like me? Should I approach someone and ask?

No, I can’t risk looking like an idiot.

I opt to twiddle with my still-frozen thumbs inside my cloak while people bustle around every which way, and while nervous butterflies begin to inhabit my entire shivering body. I watch as people briefly glance towards me and continue on with their business. Were they glaring? I don’t know, they probably were, no one ever just  _ looks  _ without judging. Was there a sign that pointed the way for newcomers that I missed somehow? I don’t know, there probably was, and it was probably put in plain sight as well.

On the other side of the yard is a blonde human man in armor barking orders at people in matching uniforms, and there are several crates near them. I can’t make out what the man says, but a moment later those in the uniforms each pick up a crate and start up the large stone staircase that looks like it leads up to the fortress. I look up at it again, ignoring my protesting neck. It’s so much larger up close.

“Excuse me, Miss? Are you lost?”

I nearly jump out of my skin before turning to the sudden voice. It belongs to the blonde human, who must have noticed me while I admired Skyhold like a star-struck fool.

I face him and open my mouth to speak, but not before he does.

“Maker, you’re blue!” He exclaims. His brown eyes are wide in alarm as he quickly looks me over, then calls to a nearby woman. I pull out my hands from my cloak to see for myself--and they indeed have a blue hue, especially the tips of my fingers. My face must be quite the sight, then…

“Oh, you poor thing! Follow me, quickly now!” The woman says in a tone that demands compliance.

I force my aching legs to march forward, and I ignore the painful protests of my feet. She leads me through the grassy yard (which feels wonderful despite my unfeeling toes) and towards a grouping of tents. People from soldiers to commoners lay on bedrolls set out around small fires. One man looks half dead judging by the limpness of his features.

The unknown woman ushers me inside one of the tents, where a different woman--who I guess is a healer--gasps at the sight of me. I watch her as she procures several blankets from a nearby basket.

“Sit.” She orders, pointing at a bedroll. How many people have died on this one? Probably several. Regardless, I wordlessly sit on the lumpy wool before her patience could be tried, taking off my pack in the process and setting it on the ground next to me. She wraps the thick blankets around me, leaving my feet exposed so that she can take them into her hands. Her brow furrows as she examines the bleeding cracks caked with several months worth of dirt, then she releases my feet to exit the tent. A moment later the healer returns with a bucket of water and a rag in hand.

She works the dried blood and mud from each foot,  _ tsk _ -ing at the state of my right heel. The dense callus had split nearly all the way across the base of my foot. Luckily, the numbness of my extremities mean I can only imagine how painful it really is.

“What’s your name?” She asks me while she applies a thick, creamy paste.

“Evuna.”

“Alrigh’, Evuna, I’m going to have you apply this poultice everyday with new bandages,” She sets a jar of the paste and a roll of white-ish cloth by my pack, “otherwise you might get an infection.”

I start getting some feeling back once bandages are wrapped around my now-clean feet. The sensation is unpleasantly nostalgic. The candles scattered about the tent may not be as warm as a fire, but it’s pleasant nonetheless. With the warmth and the soft nest of blankets, I even start to feel somewhat drowsy… I struggle to keep my eyes open, but when the healer assures me that I would be safe to sleep for a while, I let them close.

-

I awake in darkness, unable to move my arms, but then I finally begin to recognize where I am. The candles have all extinguished, and seeing the tent above me is strange compared to what I am used to from sleeping under the stars.

I peel the blankets from me, freeing my arms, and kick off the new blankets over my legs. The healer must have put those ones over me.

I stand up and stretch out my sore muscles, then poke my head out of the tent flap. It’s dark, but I can see the soft glow of the sun beginning to rise. How long had I slept? Someone emerges from another tent nearby.

“Oh! Good morning. Nice to see you up n’ about, you slept like a rock.” The healer startles me at first when she speaks to me so nicely, but I give her a smile in return when her kindness seems genuine.

I take this as an opportunity to ask the question I have yet to find an answer to.

“Hello,” I begin, “um… I don’t suppose you know what I need to do to work here? I was only here for a small while before someone yelled at me for being blue, so I never found out for myself.” She laughs slightly and I feel like a fool for asking, but then she opens her mouth to speak.

“Well, what can you do? I can prob’ly point you in the right direction.”

“I guess I have quite a bit of experience with alchemy… and I know how to take care of most animals. Oh, and I can--”

“Righ’, you could’ve stopped at the first one. We’re in need of alchemists.” The healer interrupts, smiling at me again. “You’ll want to speak with Adan.” She glances at my feet. “I’ll go find him. You can wait here. Skyhold is a whole lot of walking around when you need to find one person.” The healer turns to leave, and I sit by a nearby fire.

-

The healer (who I learned is called Helen) introduced me to the dark-haired human, Adan, who then led me into Skyhold itself. We walked through the great hall that was filled with people--mostly Orlesian and Fereldan humans--and grand decorations, as well as an intimidating throne adorned with swords. The only elves I noticed were carrying around platters and mops.

Adan continued through the entire hall, and through a door at the end of it. I followed him down a few sets of cold, stone stairs that were not pleasant for my healing feet.

The stairs ended at another door, wherein a harsh blast of cold air met us on the other side of it.

The sight was… simply  _ spectacular. _

-

“And here we have the undercroft. It’s a bit cold down here, but the view makes up for it.” Adan says as I gasp in delight. The walls of stone arch overhead, and the far side of the room has no wall, displaying a view of waterfalls, icicles, the mountains… all tinted orange from the sunrise. The fresh breeze is a familiar comfort.

Adan and I stand on a landing of sorts. A pair of short stairs lead down into the main area. The main area has many different gadgets and equipment I don’t recognize, save for the anvil and the tables of alchemy equipment in the back. There are some people here as well--a human man and a dwarf woman, but they don’t seem to pay us much notice.

Adan motions me to follow him, and I do. He leads me through the room, closer to the icicles and mountains, then stops at an alchemy table.

“Alright, Evuna, I hope you won’t have a problem with showing what you can do.” My eyes widen. I suppose it makes sense that my abilities would be a cause for concern, but I did not expect to have an audience. Audiences make me horribly nervous.

“Er… very well, ser, what would you have me make?”

“A healing potion.”

A healing potion? That’s it? This is going to be easy.

After Adan gives a brief tour of the workspace, I gather up a few elfroot plants and the equipment I need. This setup is different from what I am used to, but it is not hard to acclimate.

I chop off the roots of the plants--including some leaves--with a horribly dull knife. I then cut the roots into smaller pieces and gently score the leaves so that some of the sticky juice seeps out. It might not be as much as fresh elfroot would have, but it’s enough to get the job done. 

I turn to the apparatus that has two glass containers, one spherical flask on the bottom and a cylindrical one on top, connected by a glass tube that acts as a siphon. The entire set is suspended by a metal stand over a small burner.

Having access to recognizable equipment certainly makes this easier.

In the bottom flask goes water, and in the top goes the leaves and roots. A thin round of wood sits at the bottom of the top flask, keeping the herb pieces from falling into the siphon.

I find the box that holds tinder in one of the table’s many drawers. I have always used dried leaves, but the Inquisition’s preference for wood shavings works just as well.

I place the tinder in the burner, and set it alight with a small gesture of a hand. The flames lick the flask holding the water.

It is now that I realize that I probably should not have done that.

I freeze in place, slowly turning my head towards Adan. His expression is unchanged, but I still worry of what the Inquisition’s stance is on apostates. It’s not as though they publicly display their views… 

“What?” Adan asks with a questioning brow. “Look, I don’t care if you can shoot balls of fire from your hands. If you can get the job done, then that’s all I need to know.” I breathe a sigh of relief, nodding in reply.

The small flame I produced is about the extent of any magical abilities I possess. I have always had difficulty with anything complicated--like balls of fire, for example.

Once the water begins to boil, the siphon sucks it up into the upper flask. The wooden round lifts to allow the bubbling water through, which quickly takes on a light green hue as it mixes with the elfroot parts. After a few moments, I extinguish the flame. The water immediately stops boiling, and sinks down into the spherical flask. The round of wood once again blocks the elfroot from falling into the siphon.

I grind up the soft, soggy elfroot remains in a mortar until it becomes a thin mash. I use a funnel to pour the greenish liquid and to shove the mash into a potion bottle that was engraved with a heart--which was the symbol for healing potions, as Adan had told me. Lastly, I cork the bottle and shake it vigorously so the elfroot mash separates into tiny bits. I have done this enough times to know exactly how long it needs to be shaken to achieve that result.

With a prideful smile, I hand the completed potion to Adan. He has a perplexed look on his face, which worries me.

He uncorks the bottle, takes a sniff, and then a swig.

“I’ll admit, I’ve  _ never _ seen that method before, but it makes a damn good remedy.” I can’t help but smile wider. Adan continues: “Usually people just boil an elfroot and call it a potion, but that’s tea compared to this! Why did you score the leaves like that?”

“So that most of the juice stays inside or on top of the leaf before I put it in the apparatus, ser. Some methods have you chop everything up, but then more of it gets all over the table than in the finished potion.”

“Ah… what about grinding up all the solid bits?”

“They still have some use left in them, I just made it so they could be drunk.”

“I see! What else can you make?”

“A good number of things: various poisons, Antivan fire grenades, basic beneficial tonics… honestly, it would be hard to list them all off, not including the ones I’m still dabbling with.”

“It’s unfortunate that I haven’t the time to review each of them, but if they’re anything like what you showed me already…” Adan claps his hands together, a small smile graces his lips. “Then I suppose it’s safe to say that the Inquisition welcomes you as its newest alchemist. If you’ve any questions, Dagna and Harritt could most likely give you an answer.” He gestured toward the dwarf and then the human. The dwarf, who must be Dagna, waves at me with a cheerful expression. I timidly wave back. “Every day a list of requests will be here for you, along with the names of who requested them. If you can’t find someone, messengers and servants would be happy to deliver on your behalf. Just… don’t go handing off the dangerous ones, pitch takes forever to clean up. These crates,” he pointed to many large, empty crates with potion labels on them, “are for the masses. Healing, lyrium, whatever our people need in bulk. We only ask that you fill them up at your leisure when you’ve done the special requests  _ first _ . Any questions for me?” I blinked at the sudden dump of information.

“Am I to manage all this by myself?” I ask. I hope it’s not an offensive question…

“For now, yes. I understand it’s a bit overwhelming, but the rest of the apothecaries are busy fixing up the garden. We needed someone to take over down here to lessen the burden.” Adan scratches at his bearded chin. “Anything else?”

“No, ser, thank you.” I give him a small bow.

“Alright, the lists should be in  _ that  _ drawer, and any recipes in  _ that  _ one. I’ll leave you to it.” Adan turns and leaves, and suddenly I have a job.

-

Dagna turns out to be lovely, if not overly excitable. She’s funny and adorable, but her enthusiasm wears me out. She’s apparently the enchanter and has a strange curiosity for magic; and was exhaustingly thrilled about me having magic--despite very little. Harritt, the blacksmith, on the other hand, only introduced himself and said nothing else to me.

I scan the request list, which is considerably shorter than I was expecting. Three lyrium and two electric resistance potions for someone named Dorian, an offense tonic for a ‘The Iron Bull’, and a regeneration potion for Cassandra Pentaghast. 

I gather up the ingredients and supplies with the steady hammering of metal and the rushing of the waterfall in the background, and start mixing the potions. They are so basic for me that I manage to brew multiple at a time. Dagna is wonderfully eager to help me with any lyrium. Being a dwarf does have some benefits, after all.

“I promise I won’t keep you from your work all too often, Dagna.” I tell her.

“Nonsense! I’m happy to help! Hey, who’s this for, anyhow?” She asks, delicately adding the lyrium to the bottle in the manner I instructed.

“A man named Dorian. I don’t suppose you know where I can find him?”

“Sure do! Go up to the great hall, hang a left, first door on your left, then go up the stairs. That’ll lead you to the rotunda--which is an  _ amazing _ place--Dorian is usually either reading in a super comfy chair or throwing books at people.”

“Is he going to throw a book at  _ me? _ ” I nervously wring my hands together as Dagna giggles.

“I have no idea! Just don’t forget to duck if he does!” She finishes the business with the lyrium, and steps aside so I can take over once again.

“Thank you, Dagna… for the help.”

“No problem!” She happily skips back to her own station, and I cap up the last potion. My pack, which I left nearby on the floor, has a considerable amount of space left inside it. I never had much to begin with, only a change of clothes and a small knife. I manage to fit in all of the potions, then I hoist it onto my back.

I have no idea where ‘The Iron Bull’ and Cassandra are, but I have bothered Dagna enough today. I can figure it out myself.

I’m a grown woman. I have done more difficult things before…  _ much _ more difficult things.

Nevertheless, I walk up the cold, stone stairs back to the great hall. There are more people scuttering around now that it’s further into the day--possibly a few hours before noon, by my best guess.

I successfully find the door that Dagna described, and continue on up the steps. There are certainly a lot of stairs in this place.

This particular set led me to a round, expansive library that overlooked a--

Creators, that is beautiful. Skyhold will never cease to amaze me, will it? I lean on the railing to get a closer look. The room the library overlooks has a breathtaking mural on part of the otherwise empty wall. There are depictions of wolves, the breach, and one of the shows what I assume is the attack on Haven. I have only heard small rumors about it, so I’m unsure it really is supposed to be Haven. In the middle of the room below is a large desk with books and papers piled on it, and a structure that looks like scaffolding stands near one of the doors.

Alright, stop gawking. I have a job to do, even if it  _ is  _ just my first day.

It’s not hard to find the ‘super comfy chair’ Dagna mentioned, especially since a man-- _ a tevinter, _ no less--is sitting cross-legged in it, complaining loudly about how the book in his hand is apparently inadequate for… whatever he’s doing.

“Tell me, how is it we don’t have a  _ single _ tome on pre-blight dragons? At this point I’d be excited to find one even if it was written in Antivan…” He exclaims with a scoff, roughly shoving the book into the bookshelf and briefly glancing at me as I step closer. “Honestly, this library is just a collection of in-depth biographies of every divine who’d ever lived! Does anyone even  _ care _ anymore that Divine Theodosia II gave birth on the steps of the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux?” He flamboyantly gestures his hands in his frustration.

I can’t tell if this man is actually talking to me, or unless it’s to whoever will listen… which also happens to be me; no one else is around. I don’t have much of a desire to stand here all day, so I push past my nerves and interrupt him before he can start speaking again.

“Er, pardon me, ser, but are you Dorian?” I ask. He turns to face me in full with a Tevinter-y smile.

“Why, yes,” he flourishes a bow, “Dorian of House Pavus. I admit I’ve never seen you around here before.”

“Oh, of course, Ser Dorian.” I bow in return. “My name is Evuna, I’m the Inquisition’s newest alchemist. I started today.”

“Wait, you mean to tell me that the Inquisitor  _ finally  _ hired someone else?” Dorian looks somewhat shocked. “Ever since they started tearing up that overgrown excuse of a garden, she’s been doing most of the brewing… and anything she makes is comparable to whatever comes out of the wrong end of a nug.” He scrunches up his nose in distaste.

“Actually, Adan hired me. I don’t know the specifics of what went into that, but regardless, I have a delivery for you, ser.”

“Oh? It isn’t more erotica of Divine Rosamund, is it? I’ve seen enough of that to last a lifetime.”

I stifle a snort and fish out his potions from my bag. “No, potions, ser.” I hand them all to him in one trip. I would like to think I’ve gotten quite good at holding several bottles at once without dropping them. A lot of it involves awkwardly-placed fingers around the necks of the bottles. “I would’ve hoped it was obvious since I  _ just _ said I’m an alchemist… passing out erotica is hardly my area of expertise.” I add dryly.

“Unfortunately.” Dorian says, smirking.

He carelessly tosses the potions onto his chair, ignoring my obvious wincing.

I open my mouth to excuse myself, but apparently this conversation isn’t over.

“So did they just find you in a back alley somewhere? You look quite…  _ tattered _ .” He asks. Only Vints could offend someone without realizing it. I look down at myself anyway, and he is… very right. My clothes are well worn, my cloak has holes and tears among the stain of dirt, the hems of my trousers are frayed —well, that part is my fault; I cropped them with my knife because they were far too long—and the hair that peaks through my hood probably looks knotted and filthy… I should probably make an effort to find the bathhouses here.

“No, ser, I arrived along with a merchant caravan.”

“That hardly answers my question. Where are you from?”

I hesitate because I do not know how to answer this question.

“I… erm… nowhere, really. I never stayed in one place. Well, until now, I suppose.” I stare down at my bandaged feet. “I was born in Orlais, though.”

“You are dreadful at giving me real answers.” He laughs.

He’s not wrong.

“I suppose I am, but I  _ would _ like to deliver the rest of these potions before they explode, ser.”

His eyebrows raise in concern. Or is it curiosity? “Will they?” He asks.

I laugh. “Not by themselves, but it won’t be too hard to make them.”

He raises his hands in surrender. “Very well, off you go then!” I turn on my heel to leave, only to turn right back around again.

“Actually, ser, if you could tell me where I could find ‘The Iron Bull’ and Cassandra Pentaghast…”

-

Dorian directed me towards the smithy, and said that I could leave the regeneration potion on the top floor of it—where she normally stays, apparently—because at this hour, she’s most likely to be training. What kind of woman is she, if she trains? A soldier? Regardless, Dorian also told me that ‘The Iron Bull’ will probably hover in or near the tavern. I’m still very confused about whether or not his name is  _ really  _ a name, or just a title… and also about why a fortress needs a tavern.

What Dorian  _ failed  _ to tell me is that he would be a qunari.

A frigging QUNARI!

It would have been courteous to at least  _ warn me _ ahead of time!

An absolute giant of a person is sitting in a chair, talking to a group of people who for some insane reason, don’t seem to realize that they are in the presence of a person who could probably murder them with one punch to the face!

Stop it. For all I know, he could be the kindest man in existence, it’s not fair of me to judge like this… I have never had any qunari clients as they never seem to pass my way, so I was, and still am, extremely unused to the idea of giant, grey-skinned people with horns.

Now calm down. Pick up your feet and walk up to the man like you did with Dorian.

The Iron Bull watches me as I approach, which just makes it worse.

“Excuse me, um, ser, I have that offense tonic for you.” I force out as I hand it to him, not daring to look at his face.

“Thanks.” He says. “Never seen you around here…”

Ugh, here we go again.

“I started today, ser, I’m an alchemist.” I hold my hands behind my back to hide their shaking, although I don’t doubt my whole body was trembling. I still don’t look him in the eyes—or, eye. I saw enough of his face to see the eyepatch.

“You’re that elf who came to Skyhold half-frozen?”

I hesitate, uncertain of how or why he would know that. “Yes, ser, I reckon that was me.”

“Where you from?”

Why does everyone care? Does it matter more where I’m from rather than where I am right now?

“Nowhere specifically.” I answer.

“That’s not an answer.”

“Maybe not to you, but it’s the truth.” I look at my toes as I nervously wiggle them. “Ser.”

I politely bow and turn away before I could be yelled at. Or criticized. Or whatever giant qunari do when people don’t give them what they want.

As I near the door, I pass by a table with a bowl of steaming stew. The warm, savory smell is impossible to ignore until the tavern door closes behind me. And then I realize that I have not had a real meal in… a very long time.

_ I remember sitting, legs crossed, high up in a tree. My right hand held the chicken leg I swiped from Ariathra’s plate when she wasn’t looking. She angrily blamed Junris for taking it, her shouts were shrill and unkind. I laughed to myself as I bit into the perfectly spiced meat. _

“Satisfying, in so many ways. The break of skin beneath my teeth, I finally get to eat; insufferable silence broken at last by the sweet sounds of revenge.” Says a voice.

I jump rather violently at the sudden appearance of a man… boy… young man who wears a very floppy hat that hides his face.

I wish I had a hat like that… 

Ignore the hat, how did he voice my thoughts like that?

I stand in the yard some lengths away from the tavern. Next to me, the young man looks at me with big blue eyes, seeing too much and not enough.

“Hallen saw you do it, but didn’t say anything because they were mean to him, too.”

“Who—” I start to say.

And then he was gone.


	2. Love's Antics

I idly tap my spoon against the bowl, wracking my mind for some explanation. A man appeared before me, spoke as if my thoughts were his own, then disappeared without a trace.

Were my eyes just playing a trick?

Was it a hallucination?

The biggest question is, if it had  _ really _ happened, who is he and how did he do that? Perhaps he is a mage that doesn’t understand the meaning of privacy or boundaries… but what mage can read minds without someone feeling it, especially when the other is a mage as well?

I thoughtfully chew on a spoonful of the thick stew—which tastes dreadfully bland… I can whip something up out of  _ less  _ that would taste better. The food served in the great hall is probably of better quality, but it’s reserved for people of a much higher station. I would have bought food from the tavern if I had any money of my own; bandits had made me choose between giving up my life or my coin. I chose the latter, obviously.

At least the company here in the mess hall is decent.

As in, no one throws food at me.

They don’t talk to me either, which is also nice.

I force myself to finish my meal, ignoring only the chunks of overcooked carrot (I  _ hate _ carrots), and then I leave the mess to finally find the baths.

The bath houses were not all that difficult to find, I only had to ask one person for directions and now here I stand in the warm, humid building. A servant carrying a basket of towels points me towards the women’s baths. I bow my head in thanks.

A large pool of water lays embedded into the stone tile floor, where a few women sit soaking and washing themselves. They don’t seem to notice me, so I slowly and quietly undress in the corner. I keep my eyes low to avoid catching any scornful looks that I’m too cowardly to endure… it does not help that I can never tell for certain when someone holds less-than-worthy opinions about elves before they do something to prove it, so I learned to always assume the worst and never look a stranger in the eye.

I got slapped for doing that, on more than one occasion.

With a soft sigh, I sink into the water. It’s not very warm, but the braziers around the room help. I reach my hands up behind my head to release my hair from its low bun, unraveling the long, black tresses tangled with mud. My fingers act as a comb that pulls apart the knots and works away the signs of neglect. I let the water carry away the dried muck, including a small leaf that had somehow gotten stuck in between the locks.

The dirt that may as well be a second layer of skin scrubs off surprisingly easily; I had forgotten just how nice feeling  _ clean _ was, since the sensation wasn’t necessarily a common one. Especially recently, where Skyhold was the first real ‘civilized’ community I had even seen in the last few months.

I leave the bath to remove the soaked bandages on my feet. They look much better than yesterday; the cuts are starting to heal and the cracks are mending, but they aren’t in a good enough shape to forgo another wrapping of bandages with a generous slathering of the poultice Helen—the healer from this morning and last night—gave me. It tingles pleasantly and smells strongly of elfroot and… mint? Strange.

In my pack, I dig for the other set of clothes I have: an old tunic and another pair of shoddily-cropped pants. They are not really any cleaner than what I wore before, but I doubt traipsing around in the nude is something widely accepted around here.

It would probably be hilarious to see the shems’ faces if I did, though… not that I would  _ actually  _ do such a thing.

I still have  _ some _ dignity left.

Once my cloak is thrown over top and the hood is pulled up to cover my pointed ears, I begin the trek back to the undercroft.

-

The only problem I have with having hair as long as mine is the sheer amount of patience it needs in order to dry.

Some mage I am, not knowing a single spell that dries things.

Without much to do about it, I’m resigned to let it remain at the mercy of the cold, each length brought out of the hood and to one side where the breeze from the mountainside can hopefully speed the process.

I start making batches of healing potions to distract me from my stupid complaints, however internal they might be. My hands are quick with muscle memory, so they never get a chance to catch a chill.

The stash of herbs they keep down here is absolutely abhorrent. Nothing is fresh, a rashvine nettle leaf is sitting casually among the embrium (meaning that every flower the leaf touched must be disposed of to prevent unintentional rashes), the spindleweed is a pale brown instead of scarlet, and the overall selection is simply poor! Thankfully, I only need elfroot for these potions, which is the healthiest and most bountiful herb in the entire collection.

Maybe this is why they are starting up a proper garden, so nothing has to shrivel up by the time it’s delivered. I wish I could see the progress being made on it—I don’t even know where it is.

It’s sad to think that not too long ago, I had a successful little business of my own. I wandered from place to place, selling potions, tonics, and even some poisons to whoever was willing to pay, with my horse who burdened everything I could not carry myself. Now I’m here, where stone extends overhead where there ought to be a sky instead. After the first few years of my trade, people had started to anticipate when I would pass by their homes and waited for me by the roadside. Most of those people became regulars—one that comes to mind was an Orlesian who paid handsome sums for a poison (and my discretion) that kills slowly when properly dosed in the victim’s wine.

Whether or not he used the poison for that purpose is none of my business, and frankly, I don’t care. If it was, I wasn’t the one to perform the act; I was merely the supplier of the arrows, I never fired the bow.

I do miss my horse, though. He was a proud and loyal stallion who never complained… I wish I knew what happened to him. I hope he’s okay, wherever he is.

“Wow, you’re pretty fast at this, aren’t ya?” My hand tenses up before the knife I hold cuts something other than the elfroot. I look to the side and see Dagna smiling up at me. I give her a smile back, and return to cutting. I’m accustomed to people watching me work, because my clients did the same when I made their orders upon request.

“I have done this a long time, Dagna.” I explain without looking back to her. She doesn’t seem to take the hint that I don’t want to talk.

“Your hair is  _ really _ long, how many years did it take to—or did you use a tonic?” It’s remarkable how she manages to interrupt  _ herself _ .

“No, I use no tonics.” I reply shortly. It apparently satisfies her interesting curiosity, so she takes her leave without much of a farewell. At least Harritt is content to leave me alone.

I’m able to fill a crate about halfway full with healing potions after the sun falls low enough behind the towers of Skyhold to cast an eerie shadow throughout the undercroft. The darkness allows for the radiance of lyrium to emanate from Dagna’s station, illuminating her features as she works on some project I could never understand. With each swing of a hammer, orange sparks fly from the anvil where Harritt gives shape to a broad piece of metal. The colors remind me of fireworks, and they inspire me to add my own tones to the display.

It’s been a while since I last did this, but the recipe is still imprinted in my mind. After all,  _ I  _ was the one who wrote it. I grab a handful of blood lotus and search through the deep mushrooms to find the brightest-glowing specimens. In a flask goes a mixture of water and an absurd amount of concentrator agent. I trim the mushrooms so that only the glowing bits are plopped into the flask. The teal luminescence brightens in very little time—thanks to the agent—and the light floods over the workspace. I smile a little as I examine the effect on my pale hands, wiggling my fingers to make shadows dance on the dreary stone walls.

I add a few of the blood lotus buds to the concoction and, after a silent breath of magic, quickly seal the flask with a stopper before any toxic vapours could escape. A saturated, crimson color seeps from the buds, spreading around the deep mushrooms I enchanted to fade in and out at separate intervals. The effect mottles the red with spots of violet that shift every few seconds.

I look around the undercroft again to see the many colors meet and symphonize in the air and over surfaces. Turning their heads to my direction, Dagna grinned and giggled and Harritt’s sparkling eyes betrayed his stoic face.

-

After an insipid meal at the mess, I decide to retire for the night. The room they put me in has three beds, all lined up with the headboards against the wall, and each bed has a small chest at the foot. The one furthest from the door and closest to the window seems uninhabited, so I set my pack onto it.

I guess it was far too much to hope for a room all to myself.

Ugh.

I replace my worn clothes with a pair of sleeping ones I found in the chest. The softness of them is enough to ignore the over-large size. I absent-mindedly rub the foreign fabric of a sleeve between finger and thumb as I organize the space; my knife hides under the pillow, the old clothes are balled up in the chest, and my cloak hangs over the bedpost. The only thing left in the pack is my little flask of colorful light. Harritt was concerned about it exploding in the middle of the night, despite my assurances that it won’t, and Dagna practically begged me to let her keep it.

I truly considered letting her. The only thing that stopped me was the thought that she might open it, wherein the effects of the blood lotus would give her intense hallucinations.

And so, I thought the best course of action was to just take it with me.

The door suddenly opens when I just finish braiding my still-slightly-damp hair, startling me as two elves enter the room. They stop short when they see me, and I do the same.

“...Hi.” The elf with dark skin and a short bob says, wary.

“Hello.” I greet back, unsure of what else to say. They look at each other and shrug.

I wasn’t put in the wrong room, was I? These poor ladies are probably so confused why there’s a stranger sitting on their friend’s bed and wearing her clothes… 

“Um, am I in the wrong room? Sorry, this is where they—”

“Oh, no, you’re good, we just weren’t expecting you!” Chimes in the young, freckled elf. She smiles, and the other elf does, too. I laugh at myself for being an idiot.

At least we all have pointed ears.

The women step further into the room, and I rise to accept their greetings.

“My name’s Sessa, that’s Agnes.” The freckled one, Sessa, introduces.

I slightly bow my head. “I’m Evuna.”

“We didn’t know when they were gonna fill the empty space… not like they ever tell us anything, anyway.” Agnes adds with an intriguing Rivaini accent.

The elves adjust to my unannounced presence quickly and talk to me during their nightly routines. For all I know, it may be due more to polite obligation rather than genuine interest, but having a chance to make a good impression on—or even become friends with—people who will have many opportunities to kill me in my sleep seems like a good idea.

I’m sure they are lovely people, it just never hurts to be prepared.

It turns out that Agnes really is from Rivain, confirming my suspicion. What I could never have guessed, however, is that she stole and re-sold whatever she could take from the pockets of nobles. She does not elaborate on how she ended up in Ferelden, and I do not pry. Sessa, on the other hand, grew up in the Highever alienage. She tells me that as soon as she saved up enough coin to leave, she did. She had no family to keep her there and when she got out, she worked in a brothel. Here, both Agnes and Sessa work as kitchen scullions and despise their jobs with a palpable hatred.

We wish each other a good night’s sleep when topics worthy of discussion dry up. One by one, Agnes blows out the candles around the room, enveloping it in total darkness.

And I turn my mind to the Fade… 

-

Stars.

I never thought I would miss those little specks this much, and yet seeing them makes me homesick for a home that no longer exists.

_ Sounds of music and joyous celebration drifted in the breeze from somewhere far away, but nearby enough to see the light of the bonfire in my peripheral. I did not join the revelry. _

The Fade flashes the memory to me, lasting only an instant.

It’s bittersweet.

I stare up at the stars through a window framed by the bright green leaves and branches of the tree’s canopy. It’s always so cloudy in the Frostbacks, so I had hardly seen any on the way to Skyhold. My hands run up and down the thick, dewy, grass as if it’s the fluffy fur of a cat.

I stand up to walk around the base of the large tree centered atop a small hill with my fingers dragging along the smooth bark. Its twisting roots hug against a boulder and extend over the soil—which creates perfect little hiding spots for a dear friend of mine.

Nestled between two roots is a wispy, rosy figure with dreamy eyes that turn upwards to excitement when she sees me. She all but launches towards my chest, flitting about over and under my shoulders and arms with bouts of airy laughs.

“Evvy!” She exclaims, voice light and musical. She finally settles down and uses her long limbs to weightlessly hang from my neck.

“Hello, Love.” I smile down at her. The spirit of love releases herself to float in front of me, meeting my eyes.

“Wanna know what’s interesting?” Love spins in the air, arms outstretched. She’s in a…  _ very _ good mood today.

“What?” I ask, knowing that she will never just say it outright unless prompted.

“The effects that lyrium has on embrium. It makes it soooo prettyyyyy but that’s not all it does!”

“Okay, what else does it do?”

Love giggles, something mischievous glints in her eyes. “There’s a book in the library…” The landscape around us changes; bookshelves replace the trees and the grass morphs into a hard stone floor. The room below shows unclear depictions of the murals. The colors are right, but the images are fuzzy. Spirits take on the forms of the people I saw in it this morning, reenacting the pathways I vaguely remember noticing. A very irritated Dorian rifles through the books as well. Love glides over to his chair and sits in it, head tilted slightly. “You should read it.” She adds. I furrow my brow.

“And why should I do that?” I step closer to her.

I know just what she’s up to. It would not be the first time, either.

“Ohhhhhh I don’t know, I thought you’d like to.” Her rosy self flushes a brighter pink.

“Love, we’ve talked about this.”

“I know but you’re so  _ looooonely  _ pretty pleeeeeease?” Her eyes widen like a puppy begging for a strip of bacon. I look down at the ground and sigh. “Don’t you want to be happy?”

“I’m not going to rely on others to give me happiness if I can’t do the same for them in return. Besides, any misery I might have is insignificant… there are more important things to worry about.”

Love does not look convinced. “Telling yourself a lie over and over again doesn’t make it true.” She says, solemn.

“Now you sound like a wisdom spirit.” I counter.

I let the Fade transform back to the forest with the large tree on the hill. I use the roots to jump and pull myself up—much more easily now that the bandages on my feet could be willed away—to sit on one of the thick boughs. Love follows me, drifting instead of climbing, and wraps herself around the bough to face me.

“So,  _ hypothetically speaking _ , if I were to seek out this book that you just happen to know exists in Skyhold’s library, what would happen?” I ask after a moment of silence. Love smiles again.

“But it’ll be ruined if I tell you!”

“Not even a little hint? Perhaps with one, maybe I could be persuaded to do this.”

The spirit hums sweetly as she considers. “No. No hints! Just  _ trust  _ me!”

“How did you even learn about this?”

She laughs. “Yours are not the only dreams I wander in,  _ lethallan _ .”

“It’s been what, only a day or so? And you’re already trying to set me up!”

“I’m just pointing you in the right direction… which is to find the book!”

“You are impossible…” I toss my hands up in the air, giving up. Love watches me, still with a wistful smile, as I think to myself.

Love’s ideas always have pure intentions. I know that she will never push me towards someone who would hurt me, but I fear two possibilities: one, that they will gradually change their attitude about me, trapping me in a place where I can’t escape; and two, that I will inadvertently hurt  _ them _ because I’m a walking disaster of a person.

It’s true what Love said, that I’m lonely. I have been since I was a kid. I played alone because joining the others would ‘make the teams unfair’ or ‘cramp up the space because there are too many of us already’ or say ‘no, you should be helping Hahren Felmael’. The last one was everybody’s favorite. Not much has changed, now that I’m older. The rejections are the same with the only differences being the words used; ‘giving some to you means there’s less for us’, ‘there’s no more space’, and ‘know your place, you knife-eared bitch’.

In any case, it’s hard to understand what loneliness feels like when the opposite—companionship—is never felt. Solitude became an aspect of my life when it was clear that it made other people happier, and when I found that it’s better if  _ I _ deal with it rather than them by virtue that I  _ can _ .

“I can  _ show _ you, if you let me. I can help you feel the warm fuzzies and the tiny little fluttery butterflies and the tiiiiingles!” Love exclaims, reaching toward me with an arm.

I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Love, I… I don’t think I'm ready for this yet.” Love pulls back and coils her arms around some branches. Her face falls, pink changing to a paler blush.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of.” She reassures.

It only helps a little.

“It’s not the feeling itself, it’s what it might lead to. If I let you take the blindfold off, I might not be able to put it back on again if things go wrong.”

“But you’re not wearing a blindfold.” Love says, confused.

A small chuckle escapes me. “I was using it as an analogy. I’m sorry, I should’ve known better.”

“I would’ve called it a wall, not a blindfold.”

“Yeah?”

Love and I spend the rest of the night exploring memories of the Fade. Most are my own, but some others show glimpses into the lives of old Avvar families and long-gone Chasind tribesmen. I had hoped there would be some about Skyhold’s history, although nothing on that subject seems to be remembered by the spirits. And as always, if a demon tries to tempt us, we turn away and change the memory.

Morning arrives all too quickly. The sunlight shining through the small window and the shuffling sounds around the room brings me out of my dreams. My eyes open to see Agnes and Sessa dressing, and I rise from the blankets with a yawn to do the same.

The chest at the foot of the bed contains some daily clothes, too. Ill-fitting-ness aside, they are clean and warm, which is more than I could ask for. I wear my green cloak over the ensemble after nothing of the same sort could be found in the chest, with my braided hair trailing out over my right shoulder

-

My new roommates were not at all content with me eating breakfast by myself, so they join me at the mess hall to eat something called ‘oatmeal’.

Which is disgusting.

Who just eats soggy, gelatinous piles of oats for breakfast? And  _ enjoys _ it?!

Fereldans, probably.

Sessa snickers at my reaction when my face scrunches up at the first bite of the mushy, beige mass.

“Do people really eat this stuff willingly?” I ask, forcing it down. Agnes laughs at me.

“It’s better than nothing though, right?” She says as she shovels a rather large spoonful in her mouth. I make another face.

“Honestly, I think I’d  _ prefer _ nothing.” I tentatively poke at the oatmeal in my bowl, unsure of whether or not I could bring myself to eat the rest of it.

“How about this,” Sessa starts, “you’re stuck in the middle of the desert, starving, and there’s a bowl of this in front of you. Would you eat it then?”

“I would’ve died of thirst before starvation, so if I survived this long then I must have come across an oasis at some point, which would have plants and animals I could eat. I also probably would have just stayed there… So, no. I would never eat a random bowl of gross mush that’s been sitting in the sun for an indeterminate amount of time.” The elves blink at each other and I awkwardly clear my throat.

“That’s uh, one way of looking at it, I guess.” Agnes says.

“You never really told us where you’re from, you’ve got a bit of an accent but I can’t place it.” Notes Sessa.

Ah, well,

crap.

I forgot about that. Sometimes when I speak for too long and at one time, it slips out before I can catch it.

I stare down at my mostly-untouched oatmeal. “Nowhere, everywhere, take your pick. I was born in Orlais, if that means anything to you.” I finally say. I risk a glance of their faces, which hold curious expressions.

“No ties worth mentioning?” Inquires Agnes. She rests her head on her elbow-propped hand in interest.

“None.” I tell her, flatly. She’s either satisfied with my answer or she picks up on my discomfort, because she turns to finish her food without another word.

Sessa, on the other hand, is not quite as satisfied.

“Really? You can't have just walked around without ever living somewhere, can you?”

“I can and I did.”

Sessa’s light copper brows raise in surprise. “But what about bandits? They’ve been all over the roads!”

“I handled myself rather well, seeing how I’m sitting here.”

“You can fight?!”

“When I need to, yes.” I let go of my spoon, abandoning the oatmeal.

“Who taught you?”

My face must have shown some sort of tell, because Agnes swoops in to the rescue.

“ _ Sessa!  _ No need to interrogate the poor thing.” She downplays the reprimand with a snort. I give her a small, thankful smile.

“Oh, sorry… I probably seem like an ass right about now.” Sessa’s cheeks brighten with embarrassment.

I shake my head. “No, it’s alright. Anyway, I should probably get to work.”

We say goodbye to each other (but not before Agnes could ask for the rest of my oatmeal) and I head down to the undercroft.

-

What kind of mage needs  _ fifteen _ lyrium potions at one time?! I just made him three yesterday! I scan the list again, making sure that I read everything correctly; and indeed, at the bottom of the list, fifteen lyrium potions for Dorian. The other requests are simple things wherein the responsibility falls onto me while the rest of the apothecaries are busy digging in the dirt.

It makes me wonder: why didn’t Adan just put some to work in the garden and have others continue making potions? I should ask if I ever see him again.

I decide to tackle the more basic requests before Dorian’s. If he wants  _ that _ many at once then he can wait for them.

The morning flies by as I fill my pack—now without the flask of red and violet light I disposed of since the effect had worn off—with various salves, tonics, and the occasional poison and wander around Skyhold delivering them to the appropriate people. I have to ask about the whereabouts of each person, but luckily, I only get lost six times in this maze of a place.

All the walking and the cold is starting to make my feet hurt again, though.

It takes me two more rounds of refilling my pack in the undercroft and distributing the mixtures before all that’s left to worry about is the lyrium potions.

But I’m hungry, so I will do those after I force myself to eat another meal that will most likely succeed in tasting like the color grey.

When I stop by the mess, I see that they are serving a Free Marcher’s take on Orlesian sandwiches. I think…

I really have no idea.

It doesn’t really matter what it is, because I eat one of them regardless to keep my stomach from growling any more than it already is.

It didn’t taste  _ as _ grey, though, which is good.

Back in the undercroft (for the seemingly upteenth time), I start preparing the tables with the necessary equipment for Dorian’s outrageous and mildly concerning request.

As I do so, however, my thoughts travel to what Love told me last night.

Dorian typically stays in the library, I gather, so would he know about such a book? I still don’t understand how a  _ book _ is supposed to help me in whatever way Love believes it would; it makes very little sense to me. Aside from that, my other concern is whether or not I should go through with finding it. It might lead to unwanted trouble, it may very well cause my demise, or perhaps Love will be right—that it will make me happy, which I also fail to understand why or how.

I look over at Dagna, who doesn’t appear to be doing anything at the moment. “Dagna, could you help me out again? If you’re not busy, of course.” I call to her. My voice echoes over the walls from raising it to overcome the rushing sounds of the waterfall. The dwarf skips over, happy to help with the most delicately dangerous stage of handling the lyrium.

-

“Here you are, ser, fifteen lyrium potions.” I declare, pulling each one out of my pack to—more carefully than Dorian would—set them in the large chair. I stare down at my toes when he looks over at me from his place before the bookshelf, looking over the titles.

“Much appreciated. And very timely, no less.” He says, again with that pompous yet charming, Tevinter smile. I want to ask why he needs so many, but my clients always valued privacy. I’m not about to assume that he doesn’t, too.

“Dorian, ser… might you know of any books about lyrium and plants?” I ask before I could convince myself not to. He rubs his chin in thought while I hold my breath.

This is a bad idea.

Dorian’s eyes suddenly light up. “Ah, yes! I remember Solas borrowing something like that.” He asserts.

“S… Solas?” I repeat, hesitant. He nods.

So this ‘Solas’ is an elf, they must be. No human, dwarf, or no less a qunari would have an Elven word for a name.

“He’s probably downstairs.” He points over the railings and towards the first floor of the rotunda, the one with the beautiful murals. “I should warn you though, sometimes he can be a bit grumpy.”

“So you warn me about grumpiness, but not about The Iron Bull being a giant qunari?”

Dorian laughs. “Apologies, my dear, I didn’t think to. Although I imagine your reaction was quite a sight to see.”

I shoot him a scolding look as I start towards the winding stairs, which only makes him laugh again.

If this book leads me on some sort of wild goose chase, Love and I will be having a chat tonight.

At the bottom of the stairs, I stall before the archway. I lean against the wall that hides me from any inhabitants of the room to try and slow my quickly increasing heart rate.

It’s a  _ book _ . I have no excuses to be nervous, and yet… I am. My hands are trembling, my stomach is in knots, all in anticipation of asking for a stack of paper bound by a cover of canvas or leather. This can’t be much different than asking for directions, right? It’s the same process, more or less.

Alright, just figure out what you’re going to say beforehand—

_ ‘Hello, ser, could I have that book you’re reading?’ _ No, he could be reading lots of books, be specific!  _ ‘Good afternoon, ser, I’m looking for that book you borrowed on lyrium and plants.’  _ Should I say why I need it?  _ I  _ don’t even know why I need it! No, if I tell him that a spirit recommended it to me, he might call a templar on me. How about this:  _ ‘Good afternoon, ser, I’m interested in that book you borrowed on lyrium and plants, would you mind handing it off to me once you are finished with it?’ _ Good, that sounds good. Nice and suitably formal. Okay, now pick your feet up and walk!

It takes more effort than I would like to admit to unglue my legs from the floor and enter the room. It’s very quiet, so I ensure my steps are silent as I look around.

An elf with no hair on his head stands with his back to me examining one of the murals. There’s a lot of empty space in here, the only notable furniture being a large couch against the wall, a cluttered desk in the center with a high-backed chair, and a table or two in nondescript places.

The murals stretching from floor to ceiling are even more beautiful up close. Most of the rounded wall is empty, but the areas that are painted clearly depict stories of the Inquisition… did this man paint them?

“Excuse me, ser?” The elf whipped around very quickly, I must have startled him. “Sorry, are you Solas?” I ask. I keep my eyes low as well as my hands behind my back so that he won't be able to see how hard I’m clenching them into fists.

“I am.” He says, simply.

“Erm, I’m interested in that book I was told you borrowed, the… the one on plants and lyrium? I was wondering if perhaps you could pass it on to me once you’re done with it.” I let out a shaky exhale. “That is… if you would be willing to.”

Solas strides closer to the desk—his desk—and sifts through the many papers and books on it.

Now that he’s closer, I can see that Solas is quite… peculiar? For an elf, at least. He’s fairly tall, and his shoulders are about as broad is a human’s, but he still possesses the typical grace and litheness of elves. He has an odd name, too, but it isn’t as though mine is much different.

He finds the book and extends it over to me.

“Oh, you don’t need it anymore?” I ask.

That was a stupid question. Of course he’s done with it, you idiot, otherwise he would not be giving it to you!

“No, I’m finished with it. It was not as helpful to me as I’d hoped.” I tentatively take the book, reading the title as I do:  _ The Influences of Lyrium in Various Flora: An Extensive Study _ .

“I’m sorry to hear that, ser, and thank you.” I say. I look at Solas to smile and bow my head. His expression is perfectly neutral, so it’s impossible for me to tell if I’m somehow offending him. People can be finicky like that, and for all I know he could be the Inquisitor had I not already known that she was a woman!

“You’re not offending him, that’s just his face.”

Out of absolutely frigging  _ nowhere _ someone appears on the desk, and I jump so violently that I end with my rear end on the floor, clutching the book in front of me like a shield.

“FENEDHIS!” I swear not-so-quietly. Perched on the desk with knees drawn up to his chest is the young man from yesterday—if the hat is any sort of indication. It takes a moment for that to fully register from the burst of adrenaline.

Solas though, looks entirely unfazed. “Hello, Cole.” He greets.

I look back and forth between them. Solas can see him too?

“You’re real?” My voice comes out slightly more than a whisper, in the fear that if I were any louder, he might disappear again before I can safely surmise that I’m not actually insane.

Solas chuckles, a small smirk on his lips. At first, I never would have believed he could laugh.

He holds a hand out for me to grab and pulls me up to my feet. When he releases my own hand, I notice tiny little pinpricks of feeling that take over in the absence.

Huh… tingles.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of.” The young man, Cole, says, echoing Love’s words which sends a chill down my spine.

“I take it you have crossed paths with Cole before?” Inquires Solas.

“Yes, once, but I don’t understand. How does he…” I redirect myself towards Cole, “you spoke, then and just now, like my thoughts are yours, you disappear and appear, and…” I take a deep breath to steady myself, holding the book tighter. “I’m beginning to think I’ve lost my marbles.” He looks at me with those round eyes as I study him with my own.

Solas is the one who answers. “The truth is simple: Cole is a spirit.”

A spirit?! In the physical world?  _ How _ ?!

I reach out and gently touch his arm. It’s solid. So is his hat, and his nose. It explains his behavior, but how and why is he here?

“What are you?” I ask.

“I heal the hurt and help the helpless. Your hurt is muffled, muddled, smothered away in a single place—left to be forgotten.”

I stare at him for several moments, Solas adding nothing and only watching our exchange.

And then it hits me. “Compassion?”

“Yes.”

“Why aren’t you in the Fade? It’s dangerous for you here.” I tell him. A rare spirit like him could so easily become corrupted.

“I can help here. There are lots of hurts, and I can help them. I can help  _ you _ , too.”

“And risk becoming a demon?”

“I will not. I’m not that. I’m me.” He affirms, ostensibly to both himself and I.

“You are familiar with spirits?” Asks Solas, more like a declaration than a question.

I keep my gaze on Cole, who blinks. “More than most people, I suppose.”

“Pure and simple, easy to guess. They do not hate me for being me.” Adds the spirit. I smile a little.

“Yes, thank you, Cole.”

Solas then starts speaking poetically in Elven, words flowing beautifully in a way I have never heard them before. It’s difficult to fully understand what he says, but after a moment of unpacking the unpracticed words, I believe he said something along the lines of  _ ‘You cursed in Elven, do you know the language?’ _ , except much less bluntly put. I try my best to form a coherent reply.

_ “Yes, I speak Elven, though not like you.” _ The words feel like acid over my tongue. I turn away from Cole to finally look at Solas. He looks somewhat interested, which just makes me nervous again. “It’s difficult for me, I’m very out of practice.” I add in Common.

“How did you learn? You do not look Dalish…”

I feel my jaw tense up. This is taking a turn down a place that I  _ really _ don’t want to go. I look down at my toes peeking out from the bandage wrappings. “ _ Are _ you Dalish?”

And there’s the question. The worst question anyone could  _ ever  _ ask me.

Really, I thought the plainness of my face would be sufficient enough as an answer.

If only I were a decent liar.

“Not according  _ to _ the Dalish, no, I’m not.” I retort.

“That could mean any number of things.”

“Then you have a plethora of options to choose a favorite from, ser.” Once more, I change my glance to Solas. He has a quirked eyebrow, and his blue-grey eyes are intense and asking for more information that I will not give. “Thank you again, for the book. I appreciate it.”

“It was nothing.” He says.

I smile and turn to leave the rotunda. I see that Cole is no longer on the desk when I pass by it; he must have disappeared while I looked elsewhere.

When the door behind me closes, I lean my back to it and expel all the air from my lungs as slowly as I can, allowing the rest of my nerves to finally relax. A beardless, red-haired dwarf sits at a table nearby.

“You alright?” He asks. I only reply with a shrug, and I go walk to the undercroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have but four declarations:  
> When you read 6000 words, it really doesn't seem like much. Writing 6000 is a whole different story, so I've learned when doing so.  
> I'm at that point when I start a new hobby (e.g. this work) where the Imposter Syndrome is a regular occurrence.  
> I have nothing against oatmeal... mostly.  
> Thank you everybody who left kudos and comments, they really make my day! :)


	3. Peculiar Feelings and Ice Grenades

Solas was looking over his most recently-completed mural when the soft, apprehensive voice startled him from his thoughts. He turned to face the source of the voice, and saw the elf standing some paces away from the stairwell up to the library. Her ears might have been covered by the green hood she wore, but the modern ‘elven’ features were still visible on her face that was pale like snow. The whiteness of her skin caused a stark contrast against the inky blackness of her hair, which was intriguing to Solas. She had asked—looking down at the floor, over to the wall, everywhere except at _him_ —for a book that he had been reading simply for the sake of curiosity, and he gave it to her after he found it buried in a stack of other, more useful books on the desk.

What was even more intriguing is how familiar and comfortable she was with the idea of spirits. She conversed with Cole with more ease than she did with Solas, and she understood his nature with very little effort. It reminded him a little _too_ much of the past.

She can speak Elven as well, albeit with broken words and rhythms. When asked, she professed that she is _not_ Dalish, at least not according to them, which raised more questions than it did answers. Very few people nowadays know the language more than the Dalish; the city elves remember next to nothing, most other races do not care in the slightest about preserving it, and the Dalish clans almost never share what they know, not even to other elves (and never accept new information, either, which irritates Solas significantly).

So she _must_ have some sort of Dalish past, he is sure based on how she answered him. Perhaps she shares some similarities with Minaeve, the researcher who was cast out for being the one-mage-too-many? Of course, that would also make her a mage, except it still does not fully explain why she acted in such a way in the presence of a spirit.

Solas would have to think about this further.

~

I don’t even look at the book Love told me to find when I get back to the undercroft—I toss it aside on the corner of the table to forget about it while I distract myself with a pet project of mine.

Most people would probably punch a wall, drown themselves in ale, or maybe take a long bath.

Me? I prefer to nail down the perfect recipe for a grenade that will, theoretically, freeze a target in place. And I don’t mean by paralyzing nerves and muscles (there are plenty of poisons that do that already), but instead with ice that surrounds it and chills to the core.

I began the grenade’s development about a year ago. It was difficult to begin because I could not find any preexisting recipes or scholarly studies that people were willing to share with an elf who could not prove her intentions. I determined any possible methods through experimental outcomes alone and went from there to narrow it down with trial and error. It will be challenging to pick up where I last left off, seeing how I had not been able to work on it for some time and my notes are long lost.

Fortunately, the Inquisition has a relatively good stock of the materials I need—I would prefer if I didn’t have to resort to thievery again. I doubt that they would consider my experimentation a waste of resources if the end product is a success, and especially if it could be useful out where the fighting happens.

The basis of the grenade involves a frostrock embedded with a rune that explodes outwardly when triggered by the impact of the shattering glass. The only tricky part is figuring out a non-dissolving solution that will act as an amplifying ‘trail’ for the ice to follow when it coats the target, while also remaining a liquid when the frostrock is submerged in it inside the grenade.

By early evening, I finish eleven contenders that show decent promise. The only way to see how well they work is to throw them at something… the question is, though, at what?

I wait until Dagna steps away from her undertakings before I approach the quirky dwarf. I feel bad for bothering her so often. The only noticeable alternative is to ask Harritt, who I have barely said a word to thus far. Familiarity, whatever the level, is something I like to stick to in most situations.

“Dagna?” I say to get her attention.

She faces me with a smile. “Hiya Evuna!”

“I don’t suppose you would know of a place where I can test grenades of exploding ice, would you?” I ask. She taps thoughtfully on her chin.

“The training yards maybe? It’s got lots of practice dummies.”

“You don’t think I would get in trouble? What if I break one?”

Dagna snorts. “Wouldn’t be the first time! Bull cleaved a few in half, and no one got mad.”

_Bull_ … she must be talking about that qunari, The Iron Bull.

“Wait, really?” My reaction is more out of surprise than curiosity; it makes sense that a giant brute of a person could do such a thing.

“Yep! So if a few happen to disintegrate or something, I’m sure you’d be fine!” Dagna exclaims, unnervingly casual. I laugh dryly, looking down at the cold, stone floor.

“Okay, but if someone arrests me, then I’m blaming you.”

She giggles as I turn away to _carefully_ put the test grenades in my pack. This really isn’t the best method for carrying these—all it takes is for me to fall on my back to potentially cause a fatal accident. I will have to be vigilant.

-

I get to the training yards without much difficulty, save for the close call where a particularly stuffy noble was almost pushed into me while loudly arguing with her friend that nugs were not nearly as adorable as people seem to think.

I’m very inclined to agree with the friend, and I understand their reaction completely.

Nugs are absolutely adorable. To deny it is akin to denying there was ever a gaping whole in the sky.

No matter, though, because I have testing to do.

It’s mostly empty, but I still take a moment to awkwardly stand there and debate in my head whether or not this is a good idea. There are a few people brutalizing dummies on the far end of the grassy area, probably too engrossed to care about what I do. Others pass by without so much as a glance towards the training people, so perhaps they would offer me the same treatment?

I tentatively approach the most isolated dummy I can find and place myself a good twenty-or-so feet away from it, then I set my pack down beside me as a place marker. From it, I dig out the paper I had been using for notes, a quill I found in a drawer in the undercroft, and the rounded glass flask labeled as ‘#1’.

With the grenade in my right hand and my left arm held out straight to aim, I let it fly.

It lands directly on top of the dummy’s head (a good shot, if I say so myself). The rune works as intended and blasts the frostrock into bits. The liquid solution, however, does not. Instead of amplifying and providing a pathway for the freezing effects, it coagulates into viscous globs that drip like snot down the dummy’s face, which I can clearly see when I walk up to it. I fail to resist the urge to touch it.

It’s cold, sticky, and a generally unpleasant feeling.

It’s kind of neat, though.

I take note of the results on the piece of paper.

**_#1 - Rune: works, Liquid: cold globby snot on impact_ **

I move on to the second grenade. This time, it lands on the dummy’s left shoulder and explodes into a slushy mess.

**_#2 - Rune: works, Liquid: slushy mess on impact_ **

The third grenade hits the dummy low on its torso.

**_#3 - Rune: works, Liquid: still liquid on impact_ **

Four smashes in the center of the torso.

**_#4 - Rune: works, Liquid: snow-like on impact_ **

Five is just a flask of dense ice that misses the dummy and thuds into the grass. The glass breaks, but the ice retains the shape of its earlier container and rolls around a bit before I collect it.

**_#5 - Rune: unknown, Liquid: frozen before thrown_ **

Six crashes into the right shoulder.

**_#6 - Rune: works, Liquid: freezes when intended, does not amplify effect_ **

Seven goes off in mid air at the apex, as a cloud of mist.

**_#7 - DANGEROUS, Rune: premature explosion, Liquid: evaporated_ **

Eight has the same result as five, except I manage to hit the target this time.

**_#8 - Rune: unknown, Liquid: frozen before thrown_ **

Nine collides where a man’s jewels would be.

“Nice shot.”

What is _with_ people sneaking up on me today!

I whip around to face the accented voice, meeting a tall human wearing armor and her hair as a dark braided crown.

“Um, thank you.” I say with a bow of my head.

“But _what_ in Andraste’s name are you doing?” She crosses her arms at her chest and penetrates my very soul with her stern gaze. I quickly look away.

“Oh, I’m an alchemist,” I begin, my voice shaky and uncertain, “and I had some free time to spare so I thought I could test out some ice grenades I’m developing, but if I’m not supposed to do that then I’m so terribly sorry, I just thought that maybe it could be useful to people if I can get it right.” I prepare myself to be scolded, with my hands locked with each other behind my back.

“An alchemist? I thought the Inquisitor wanted all of you to help with the garden.”

“I was hired to handle any alchemical requests that the others struggle to keep up with at the moment, serah. I was never told the specific ‘whys’ of anything, just instructions to follow.”

She hums in response, and then there is a pause. I don’t look at her face, but I can still tell that she is studying me for ill intentions.

“Carry on, then.” She finally says. I nod and walk up to the dummy—which is starting to look quite gross from all of the different substances coating it—to get a closer look at the most recent impact site. A thick layer of frost extends from the dummy’s groin to over the torso and the stick that holds it to the ground.

**_#9 - Rune: works, Liquid: freezes when intended, slightly amplifies effect_ **

So far, grenade number nine is the best one.

The armored woman is still standing there, watching me as I throw the next one that smashes into one of the few empty areas left: the neck. It makes me nervous when her head nods approvingly.

**_#10 - Rune: works, Liquid: mostly liquid, large frozen chunks_ **

Eleven is the last one. I whisper Sylaise’s name before I launch it towards the target’s face, asking for some sort of assurance that _this_ will be the one.

It explodes immediately on impact and icy tendrils rapidly spread around the dummy, encasing it entirely with dense ice.

Creators, did that actually work?!

The woman follows me as I excitedly skip to the dummy and touch the ice for myself. It’s so cold that I reflexively pull my hand back.

“YES! It works!” I exclaim to the sky. The woman chuckles.

The chances of _now_ being the moment that this thing finally succeeds is honestly baffling. However, there is still one more little thing that needs testing.

“Could you… since you have gloves… could you possibly punch the dummy, or hit it somehow? To see how well it holds?” I ask her. She motions for me to step aside, giving her ample room to jab the dummy square in the gut. The surface of the ice cracks like a spiderweb, but it holds strongly. I giggle in delight, writing in my notes.

**_#11 - Rune: works, Liquid: works, holds when cracked_ **

“I take it that this was the goal?”

I feel the corners of my mouth stretch into an even bigger grin. “So far, yes! It’s a stationary target, so I have utterly no idea how well it would work on, say, a giant bear that’s about to rip you to shreds, but this is a _fantastic_ start.”

I kneel before the dummy to inspect the cracks more thoroughly, poking and prodding with my quill. The ice stays attached surprisingly well; not even a chunk falls off when I run a nigh-invisible flame over the surface with my hand.

I hear another pair of footsteps approach from behind and stop next to the woman.

“Something interesting?” A rough yet recognizable voice inquires. I look over my shoulder and see the same beardless dwarf from before, after my… excursion to the rotunda. He seems to remember me, as well, slightly inclining his head towards me in acknowledgement.

“Yes, Varric, though _I_ could hardly explain it.” Replies the woman. I still don’t know her name. At this point, I fear it would be too odd to ask for it.

“Looks like a bunch of goop, to me.” He laughs.

Standing up, I smile at the dwarf.

“I was testing ice grenades to see which one worked the best, and the winner is,” I point to the expanse of ice, “this one.” 

“Ice grenades, huh? That _is_ interesting…” Varric and the woman share a look that I don’t like with each other, an idea clearly forming wordlessly between them.

“Um… I should probably clean this up.” I mumble. The two of them nod and take their leave in the same direction, towards the smithy, I believe. Once they are out of sight, I let fiery ringlets curl over my fingers to melt all of the ice that remains on the dummy. It’s a struggle to create and maintain this sort of thing, as always—it leaves me feeling like I ran five miles without any breaks to catch my breath.

I tried to teach myself how to use my magic, I really did. Many nights I would hide deep inside caves and hold a flame over my palm for hours at a time, concentrating on various different thoughts that might finally make it grow, and I used to sit outside during angry thunderstorms in the foolish hopes that it would help me create my own lightning. When nothing else seemed to work, I stole some books on magical theory and runic shorthand. They may have helped with my horrendous technique, but my dubious power remained unchanged.

I have since made peace with it. After all, not everyone with legs can dance, not everyone with a voice can sing, and not everyone with hands can play Wicked Grace well enough to empty the opponents’ pockets. It’s simply a talent that I don’t have.

-

After picking up every last shard of broken glass, I sit down at the mess for a quick dinner. It’s a little rowdier compared to yesterday. There are more people sharing loud conversations and jokes followed by bellows of laughter. I do spot The Iron Bull on the far side of the hall, though, surrounded by what looks to be a group of joyful mercenaries. They playfully shove one another in the shoulder and give each other griefs. I only realize that I’ve been watching them when The Iron Bull’s eye meets mine.

I turn back to my boring stew, feeling rather embarrassed for staring. It’s not like I can help it, he’s hard _not_ to notice!

I sigh and reluctantly finish the contents of the bowl (excluding the carrots).

The bathhouses are livelier, too, most likely because of it being later in the day. I pick the same corner as I did yesterday to keep my belongings in while I soak in the water and comb out my hair with my fingers.

The ladies in the bath tend to stick to groups most similar to themselves, I note. The humans seem to have claimed one side, the dwarves tend to stay in the middle, and the elves—including myself—congregate on the side closest to the door.

‘Safety in numbers’, I suppose, is a universal concept.

I re-bandage my feet once I dry myself off; the wounds are improving wonderfully. I suspect I will only need one more day of wrapping my feet like this.

I pass by Agnes and Sessa as I leave the bathhouse. They smile and say hello, and I greet them back the same way, while feeling somewhat relieved that I missed the chance of having to talk to them when we were all naked. Sessa would probably ask about the scar on my right shoulder, butting in on something that she doesn’t need to know about.

I have _really_ got to stop assuming the worst things about people. It’s not fair.

-

_The Influences of Lyrium in Various Flora: An Extensive Study_.

I sit on the floor beside my bed, reading the title over and over again and never opening the front cover.

How did Love think that this was a good idea? I suppress a shudder when I think back to my earlier behavior.

Solas, who very well could be one of the most important people in Skyhold (judging by the area he seems to own all to himself), probably just thinks I’m some squirrely, ignorant girl who’s a tad too friendly with spirits. I would not be surprised if he expressed concerns about my presence here.

Then again, he was friendly with Cole, too… Solas knows what Cole is and was not afraid. He watched and listened to our conversation and said nothing about the dangers of ‘demons’ that only wish to possess you. He speaks Elven with a beauty that I could never hope to obtain, and I could only answer him with syllables that probably sounded like sandpaper being rubbed against his ears. He can’t be Dalish, can he? He has no vallaslin, no recognizable accent, and if he is indeed Dalish, he would have stopped at nothing to make it known within the first two minutes of meeting.

I rest my head in my hands, digging my nails into my scalp. It’s just so… _contradictory_ to what I thought I understood. Everyone is supposed to hate demons and spirits. Everyone is supposed to run and hide at the mere mention of one. Everyone is supposed to want to kill me for considering some of them friends. No one is supposed to know Elven better than the Dalish do. No one is supposed to willingly help me to my feet when I fall like a klutz. How can _one_ person suddenly cause doubt in these?

The only thing I can be certain of at this point, is that I acted like a fool when all I had to do was ask the man for a book. Perhaps it would be best if I never cross paths with him again, to save us both from embarrassment.

I take a deep breath, and open the cover of the book. I read the damned thing for a few hours until I fall asleep.

-

When I open my eyes again, I’m laying between the large roots of the tree, watching the stars of my memories in the Fade’s sky. The leaves of the trees all around rustle with the gentle wind and a musical sigh joins in.

“You fooouuund it!” Love sings. She floats down from the tree’s branches, twisting in the air and finally holding still upside down, just in front of my face with happy, upturned eyes.

“Yes, I did.” I say shortly. Love’s pink hue brightens, especially around her cheeks.

“Aaaaand? Did you think it was interesting?” The spirit turns herself right-side-up and inches closer to me.

I pick at a piece of dark brown bark with my fingers. “I guess so. I still don’t get why you wanted me to find it, there’s really nothing in it except for what the title promised.”

I had expected some sort of hint in the book—notes in the margins of a particular page, a piece of paper hidden in between, that sort of thing. That’s usually how Love’s plans work. In the first half of the book I was able to inspect before falling asleep, I found nothing out of the ordinary.

“Nooooo, you silly nug! It wasn’t the _book_ you found!”

I blink at her, confused.

“What? What else could I have found?” I ask.

Love giggles mischievously and grabs my hand, then pulls me up to my feet in a smooth motion. During which, the Fade swiftly shifts into the rotunda and Love’s face and wispy body reflects that of Solas’s. Our hands stay clasped together while it slowly clicks in my head.

_Oh… oh no…_

This won’t do at all… 

“No.” I denounce. Love returns to her original form as she releases my hand, leaving behind a reminiscent tingling sensation. Her glowing eyes angle into concern and disappointment.

“You didn’t even think about it…” She remarks.

“I don’t need to. It’s a bad idea.”

“Whyyyyy?”

I pause for a few silent moments, searching through the reasons in my mind that might be strong enough to convince her. Nothing comes up.

“Lost without luster and loathing to long, hollow allusions and learned illusions left no leeway for love.” Love states.

I start walking along the circular walls, not wanting to pace yet not wanting to be still. “That makes no sense.” I quietly express. The spirit takes her place in the high-backed chair at the desk, watching me lap around the room.

Before, when Love tried to lure me towards someone she wanted me to meet, I never acted on anything that showed itself to me. I never sought out the owner of the pouch of silvers that Love led me to find, instead I kept it for myself because my business was in a temporary decline. Once, there was a tear-stained letter crumpled in a flower pot, written to declare the writer’s love for the intended reader, whose name was crossed out with vehemence. On yet another occasion, Love tried to sway me into buying a certain horse as a companion to my own misplaced stallion; I would have done so if I knew I could care for another horse.

This time is different. She led me directly to who she wanted me to find because she knew my curiosity, as per usual, would get the better of me. It’s a new tactic that I will never trust again.

“You may do as you wish, Evvy, I simply point the way. You alone can choose the path to walk.” Love conveys.

Glancing at her rosy form, I slow my steps. “I… I know that. But… I’m just…” Sputters out.

“Confused, scared, uncertain, and misled. Doubtful of yourself and the kindness of others.” The spirit drifts up into the air. “Looooove is trust, intimacy, foundations, and guiding lights, sooooo many things that were denied and unobtainable. I _understand,_ lethallan.” She lowers down in front of me, smiling softly.

I hesitantly smile back. “I suppose you would.” The Fade becomes the forest again, with Love and I both standing some lengths away from the great tree’s base. I look up at the tangled branches above. “Sometimes I swear you’re more than a spirit of Love.”

“I am whatever you need me to be. Wisdom, compassion, love, or somewhere in between.”

“Not desire or envy or fear?”

“I refuse to become… _that_.” Her eyes wrinkle in disgust. “You confirm my purpose and my being, like flowers flourishing from the light of the sun.”

I laugh. “Now _you’re_ the one using analogies.”

“Miiiiine make sense!” Love pouts. She follows when I climb up to my favorite bough of the tree and sit with my legs dangling over the sides.

“I met a spirit of compassion in the waking world. He has a body and everything.” I tell her. She hums. “He appeared when I got the book from Solas. I didn’t know he was a spirit until Solas told me—apparently they know each other. What I don’t understand is why he is content to let a spirit wander around Skyhold when he could so easily become corrupted, and why he wasn’t angry with me for being friendly with Compassion, er… Cole. The spirit’s name is Cole.”

“Do you think Solas should’ve been angry?” Asks Love.

“No, I like that he wasn’t, but that’s not the way this sort of thing usually goes. I thought everyone was predictable. I thought I had every archetype for every kind of person pinned down, but Solas does not fit into these conjectures. I can’t guess anything. And when I can’t guess, I can’t prepare myself properly. And when I can’t prepare, the worst happens and I’m left without a plan.” I explain, voice wavering.

“You’re thinking about it too much. Think of what you _knooooow_ for absolute certainty. No guesses. No assumptions.”

“I…” I calm myself with a few deep breaths. “I know that he is an elf, he asks a lot of uncomfortable questions, he’s on good terms with a spirit of compassion, his name means ‘pride’, he speaks Elven better than me, and he has very warm hands… or maybe only one of his hands is warm, I only felt the one.” I watch my thumbs twiddle in my lap.

“Is that it?”

“Um… I guess not. He’s also very tall for an elf, I suppose… he’s got quite a nice nose, I like his ears…”

I look up at Love to see her grinning, her entire form intensely pink and vibrating in delight.

I tilt my head, puzzled. “What?”

“Keep goooooing!”

My eyes narrow in suspicion, but I comply. “He has pretty eyes, I like his laugh—at first I didn’t even think it was possible for him to laugh, but he did and it sounded nice—and I guess he _was_ kind to me. He could have just thrown the book at me instead of handing it like he did, he could have let me pick myself up off the floor, he could have yelled at me for being a dolt… Oh, Creators, why am I smiling?”

I run my hands over my face, banishing the smile that had somehow formed while I spoke.

Love titters ecstatically.

“What’s so funny?” I demand, setting my arms akimbo.

“Ohhhhhh just how you act like you don’t know things.” Love sways gently back and forth with a teasing smirk.

“I—”

“You like him!” She bursts.

“What!? No, no no no no no, no I do not!” I exclaim.

Do I?

“You do!”

No, I can’t.

“I just met him!” I plea. Her smirk only grows wider.

I _can’t!_

“Doesn’t matter!” She laughs.

Fenedhis, I do, don’t I?

Maybe if I just give it time, this stupid, childish… _crush_ will fade. Maybe one day I will learn something horrible about him and it will ruin everything that I thought was commendable.

“What am I supposed to do?” I ask, bringing up my knees to bury my face between them.

“You’re not _supposed_ to do anything, it’s important that you recognize this feeling for what it is. So be it if something more blooms from it, and so be it if nothing does.” Love sets her hands on my shoulders. “It will take care of itself one way or another.”

“But… this isn’t… it’s not…” I start to tremble and shake.

“Evvy, hush. I will say it until the end of time: there’s nothing to be afraid of. The world is a scary place but that doesn’t mean you should suffer at every turn. New things are scary, although nothing is learned by holding onto the old, yes?”

I finally look up at her pale pink self, who is smiling like a mother reassuring her child. I slowly nod.

“Good. Now _wake up_!”

I awake on the floor with a jolt, still holding the book tightly to my chest. A blanket covers me and a pillow cushions my head—Agnes or Sessa must have put them there because I have no recollection of doing so myself. I push myself off of the floor.

The light of the sunrise beams through the window, casting dim oranges and yellows over my sleeping roommates. All is quiet save for Sessa’s gentle snoring.

-

The uneasy feeling in my stomach provided a good excuse to skip breakfast, and I doubt a bowl of gross mush could have settled it.

Instead, I went straight to the undercroft to be more productive than I could have been while picking at my oatmeal with a spoon.

I rub away the goosebumps forming on my arms as I read over my tasks for the day; it’s far colder down here today due to the stronger breeze, and I have to put weights over any papers that threaten to fly away.

The morning passes on by relatively quickly. I seem to have found a rhythm to follow that allows me to treat my work as a second nature and permits my thoughts to wander into self-loathing territories.

I have only myself to blame, for it was careless of me to let this happen. I acted on Love’s suggestion because I was genuinely curious, but I should have realized that it might have led to this, whatever _this_ is… 

It’s foolish. That’s what this is. Foolish and senseless because I’m too naïve to prevent and deal with these sorts of feelings, just like with everything else.

_‘Foolish child, you should know better! Have I taught you nothing?’ Shouted Hahren Felmael, face red like a beet. I looked away and down at the grass, the tears burned in my eyes more than the cuts on my arms did._

_‘I’m sorry!’ I asserted for the seventeenth time. He grunted in annoyance. They all watched as he slapped me across the face._

Cole appears, somehow without giving me a start and sitting on the table holding the unused alchemical equipment. I glance at him once, then continue with working on the tonic before me.

“Wicked snickers resound and rebound from every direction, this isn’t fair.” He says, voicing my memory.

“She sabotaged it. I tried to tell him but he didn’t believe that his precious granddaughter would ever do such a thing.” I reply. My mouth twitched into a slight but spiteful frown.

“She hurts, too. Pressure to be powerful, desire to be desired, one thing having to be everything, and yet bellowing from the back buzzes the silent song of shame.”

I pause for a few seconds before adding powdered spindleweed to a mortar. “So Ariathra finally learned guilt? Good for her, I guess.” I say flatly.

A moment passes before the subject is abruptly changed to a more current topic, much to my dismay.

“ _He_ doesn’t think you’re foolish, though.”

Of _course_ Cole would pick up on that. This time, I fully stop my work to face the odd spirit of compassion, whose big eyes tell of the many things he knows.

I hate to admit that it’s a comfort to hear that.

“Is that so?” I query.

“Love is right, too.” He adds.

“About what?”

“Everything.”

Without another word, the table is suddenly absent of Cole. I sigh heavily and finish the rest of this batch of potions before I set out to deliver them.

-

A couple hours after lunch, I once again find myself with free time to make some tweaks to the ice grenade recipe. I will have to test each new formula in the training yards, but for now I’m content to write down the different possibilities.

The peace and quiet is undoubtedly only destined to last for so long, because the undercroft’s door noisily opens. From my position, I can’t see who comes in, but I do hear Harritt say “Master Tethras” in greeting. The ‘Master’ as a title instantly makes me anxious, so I keep my eyes to the paper that I scribble on. However, when the footsteps stop from behind, I slowly turn around to see the dwarf from yesterday. Varric, I think, was his name.

And he’s probably here to fire me, or something similar. But his friendly smile negates that assumption.

I absent-mindedly fiddle with my quill. “Hello.” I mumble.

“Hey, I don’t know if you remember me, but Cassandra was insistent that _I_ come to you instead of her. Name’s Varric Tethras” He tells me.

Is Cassandra that human that punched the dummy for me? Seems to be the most likely possibility… 

“I’m Evuna… do you need something from me?”

“Maybe. That grenade thing you were working on yesterday, when do you think it’ll be finished?”

I consider for a moment. “Um, a few days or so? It really depends.”

“Alright, because the Seeker and I think it would be pretty useful out there in the field. And the Inquisitor liked the idea.”

My heart drops into the pit of my stomach as I feel the blood drain from my face.

“The… Inquisitor?”

They told the frigging _Inquisitor?_

Varric scratches at the back of his neck. “Yeah, and she also wants to know what else you can make—specifically if you have any other offensive-type stuff.”

“Erm… for grenades I know how to make ones of Antivan fire, fire—there is a difference, pitch, acid, confusion, soulrot, dispelling, the ice grenade as you saw, and I have others that I work on from time to time that don’t have names yet… and for poisons, formally, I know fleshrot, deathroot extract, mage bane, soldier’s bane, Adder’s Kiss, and Quiet Death. I have a lot of others that I sort of… invented myself. They don’t really have names either.” I list off, looking down at my toes as I do.

Varric chuckles, shaking his head with a smile. “I don’t know if I should be impressed or afraid. Could you maybe write all that down for me? There’s no way I’ll remember everything.”

A few minutes pass while I write every single potion, tonic, poison, poultice, salve, and grenade that I know how to make or is in the process of being developed. I include the beneficial ones just to make it _clear_ that I’m not some sort of assassin, and any that are nameless are given short descriptions.

I hand the list to him, hoping he does not notice how much it quivers from my shaking hand.

“Thanks, Fidget.” Says Varric.

“What?”

He smiles warmly and gestures at my hand that fidgets with the quill. I freeze, then slam it down on the table as if it were actively on fire.

Fantastic. My first ever nickname is the result of a nervous habit. I suppose it’s better than ‘Rabbit’, though, so I can’t complain.

“See you around.” He waves goodbye and turns away. I stand frozen in place until I hear the door shut close.

The implication that the Inquisitor of all people believes my creations are practical is enough to send a surge of pride through my body. But on the other hand, the mere thought of being noticed by such a powerful person provokes a chill to run down my spine.

This is worrying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have but five declarations:  
> -Nugs are cute.  
> -I swear I spend more time searching up synonyms for words than I do writing in an uninterrupted period of time.  
> -Just because I'm worried someone will be mad at me for it, Solas's is *technically* more correct than Solas'. I know that both are accepted in English, I just like being as grammatically correct as I can possibly be.  
> -The Oxford Comma is the best comma.  
> -Thank you all for the kudos! :)


	4. Carrots are Bad for Rabbits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jumping in here to let you know that there is some graphic content and non-consensual themes in this chapter.

There is a tiny, tiny voice in the back of my head telling me that something bad is going to happen. I haven’t the slightest idea what it could be or why, when, and how it would transpire, but it’s there nonetheless. Maybe it’s because that the most powerful person in Thedas right now knows I exist? Or perhaps it’s about this whole…  _ thing  _ about the elf in the rotunda?

Or it very well could be all of the above.

In any case, I think I’m doomed.

Some minutes after Varric left the undercroft, the dwarf of a happier and gigglier kind walks up to me to satiate her enthusiastic curiosity.

“So! What’d Varric need? He pretty much never comes down here.” Dagna asks. I had not continued with my notes about the ice grenade since the previous dwarf left; the thoughts swirling through my head needed to be quelled… for a little while, at least.

I shrug. “Apparently the Inquisitor thinks those ice grenades I mentioned to you yesterday are interesting. Varric and some woman saw me test them out in a training yard, and they went and told the most terrifying person in Thedas.”

Dagna claps her hands together, an excited smile stretching across her face. “Ooh, how fun!”

“I don’t see how any of this is  _ fun _ , Dagna.” I retort. “Nobles acknowledging me is enough to put me on edge, and this is  _ so _ much worse.”

“Don’t worry about it! The Inquisitor is  _ super _ nice and understanding and helpful and she likes everybody!”

“I’ll take your word for it… but I still don’t know what that means for me. If she thinks what I can do is useful to her and her mission, what would happen? Or, if she ends up thinking what I do is a threat, then will they throw me out into the snow?” I hesitantly make eye contact with Dagna—something that I rarely do intentionally—to try and convey the sincerity of my concerns. Thankfully, she picks up on it, and her smile shifts from excitement to simple friendliness.

“Well, I can’t speak for the Inquisitor exactly, but I think she’ll wanna have you make stuff for her and her friends. Y’know, like ice grenades! She’s not one to pass up on something that can give her an advantage.” Dagna explains.

“I suppose I would do the same if I had to defeat an evil darkspawn magister…” I lean back against the table behind me, letting my hands support my weight and for my fingers to tap the smooth surface beneath them as I think to myself. “And I guess if this is how I can help with that feat, then I’m happy to do so.”

“See? Ya just needed to look at it a bit differently.”

I give her a smile. “Thank you.”

Dagna returns to her station, and I start back up with my notes of lists of different substance combinations that have miniscule changes from one another, and that are all based around the components of the one successful grenade. It’s tedious, although my desire to have every possible improvement written down overtakes the boredom.

I don’t stop until I notice that the undercroft has taken on a dark, shadowy dimness from the fading sunlight, which I use as a good indication that I should probably go get something for dinner before the mess hall closes.

-

I’m later than usual to the mess this time, meaning that the food given to me is disappointingly lukewarm —it’s really not that big of a deal, but the few days at Skyhold have spoiled me with warm meals and clothes.

I struggle to find an open spot as I wander between the tables, giving The Iron Bull’s and his friends’ table a wide berth as I do. This was never an issue before; people rarely ever sit at the very ends of tables, which leaves them free for lonely stragglers like me.

Movement catches my eye, and I look over to see Sessa waving me over from across the room. Agnes sits next to her, and I see a few empty spaces around them. I make my way to them, seeing how I have no other options.

Not to say that I don’t like them, I  _ do _ … but Sessa’s questions tend to be on the prodding side of things, even if it  _ is _ unintentional.

“Hey!” Sessa greets in her naturally-loud way. Her enthusiasm makes her coppery curls bounce.

I sit across from Agnes, the quieter of the pair. “Hi.” I greet back. Agnes says nothing, and only inclines her head towards me.

“Welcome to the late crowd, where the food’s the worst and the company’s the best.” Says Sessa with a cheerful look.

Agnes snorts. “Keep in mind that ‘best’ does not necessarily imply ‘good’.”

“How so?” I question, purely for the sake of keeping the discussion on a topic other than myself.

“If you take shit company and pick out the best of them, it’s still shit company. It just smells a little better.”

“Wonderfully put, Agnes.” Declares a chortling Sessa.

My mouth curves down to a frown when I discover too late that a piece of carrot was hiding in the latest spoonful of the rapidly-cooling stew.

I perish the thought of spitting it back into my bowl and force it down. “Is it really worth having to eat this, though?”

“No, not at all, but Sessa likes to look at the qunari over there.” Puts forth Agnes, who smirks cruelly as she gestures over to The Iron Bull. Sessa’s eyes widen with horror and her cheeks flush.

“Um… I… well, you see… I…” Sessa fumbles fruitlessly for words, and I have to resist the urge to laugh.

Agnes’s chuckles bellow out with an unexpected strength. “No worries, no worries, can’t say I blame you. There  _ is much  _ to look at, indeed.”

I cock my head to the side, curious. “You don’t think he’s utterly terrifying?”

Sessa’s eyes become dreamy. “Nah, he’s actually really nice. One time he passed by and said ‘how ya doin’?’ with that smile of his—”

“—and she squealed instead of answering him.” Agnes interrupts.

“That’s not true!”

“Sure, just like how I didn’t see it.”

I quietly listen to the two elves bicker with each other while I make equivocal progress on my food. It’s pretty remarkable how Sessa’s face manages to become even redder with every teasing sentence that comes out of Agnes’s mouth, especially when more…  _ intimate  _ things are said.

“Go up and talk to him!” Agnes urges.

Sessa shakes her head. “I’d rather die.”

“You’re just nervous about how  _ proportionate _ he is. Don’t be shy, you know he likes redheads.”

“S’not really that red…”

“Bet that head’s red enough for a  _ different  _ kind of head, though.”

“ _ Agnes _ !”

“I say it like I mean it, and you’ve got a great rack to boot.”

“Stop it!”

I giggle at Sessa’s reactions, but when I sense the looming presence of someone behind me, both she and Agnes suddenly fall silent and move their gazes upward. Sessa’s blush reaches an all-time high.

The subject of this conversation is behind me, isn’t he?

I slowly crane my neck around to confirm that The Iron Bull is, in fact, behind me.

The huge mass of muscle towering over us is an alarming sight, and it makes me want to pull my hood over my head and hide in a corner for a week or two. I catch that he has a sly grin on his face before I turn back to face the elves, who are somehow still awestruck.

“Hey ladies, thought I heard you talking about me.” He says with his chest-rumbling voice.

“Talking? Yeah. Sessa here has been looking and drooling up a lake, too.” Agnes grimaces as Sessa stomps in her foot.

“Shut up!” The blushing elf hisses. The giant qunari takes a seat across Sessa, and next to me.

I would run away this very moment if every single muscle in my body had not tensed up, freezing me in my place.

“You’re that one alchemist from a few days ago?”

Oh, why is he talking to  _ me?! _

“No, I’m her evil twin.” I quietly quip, looking down at what remained of my stew.

I should probably not be sarcastic with someone who could snap me like a twig… 

“Although if you must know, yes. I am.” I add.

Before The Iron Bull could ask anything else, Agnes once again swoops in to rescue me from my discomfort… by causing more discomfort for Sessa.

And I feel guilty about it. Others should not have to deal with my problems, no less suffer from them.

“So, Sessa, does he look better up close?” She nudges her friend in the side.

“Uh… I guess so —not to say that you don’t! You do, that is, I think you look…  _ phwoar _ .” Stammers Sessa. The Iron Bull snorts. Whether it was due to her answer or her embarrassed reactions, I can’t say.

“Sera says the same thing, but only to ask me about the women.” He says amusedly.

“That one crazy elf that throws pies from the roof of the tavern?” Agnes guesses.

“Yeah.”

“Nice.”

“Speaking of the tavern, me and the Chargers were gonna head over there later, you wanna join?” He points a huge thumb over to the table where the group of mercenaries I saw with him before sits. Agnes gives Sessa a knowing sidelong glance, as the latter elf’s face contorts with elation. She nods vigorously, seemingly at a loss for proper words.

“I’ll go, too. What about you, Evuna?” Inquires Agnes. I fiddle with my thumbs, unsure of what to say.

“Um, no. I don’t… I don’t like crowds. Or alcohol, for that matter. I would not enjoy myself very much.” I explain.

Sessa furrows her brow. “Fair enough, but you’re not just gonna lock yourself in the room on a Friday night, are you? There are lots of other fun things to do…”

“Maybe?” I awkwardly shrug. “I don’t know… maybe I’ll go read a book or something. I like books.”

I don’t know why I’m vying for their approval; I should be able to do as I please without question!

…Right?

All three of the people around me share weird looks, as if reading is not meant to be pleasant.

Sessa is the one who breaks the short silence. “Uh, sure, if that’s what makes you happy.”

“It does.” I assure.

The Iron Bull, Sessa, and Agnes talk for a few more minutes before I excuse myself from the table and leave the hall.

It’s quite dark now, and the consistent wind from throughout the day has gotten stronger. I pull the edges of my cloak and the hood tighter around me, and I quickly walk to the bathhouses.

I close the door to the wonderfully warm building, trapping the biting air on the other side. As I go about bathing I do note that there are considerably less people here than there were in the mess hall, and I assume that they all decided to join in on the debauchery that’s apparently happening at the tavern tonight. It’s all well and good—I appreciate the peace and quiet.

I inspect my feet once again; the cuts have healed, leaving only lines that I know will go away on their own. Save perhaps the large one on my heel, which might even leave a permanent scar.

Regardless, I happily skip rebandaging them.

Feeling the stone floor beneath my feet is inexplicably relieving… like being able to see clearly after a period of time with blurred vision.

Eager to feel the grass between my toes again, I brace myself to go out into the cold outdoors.

-

I end up walking the longest path that I know of to get to the library so I can prolong the sensations of stretching my toes into the earth below and breathing in the brisk breeze. It reminds me of how it felt to wander through the trees in the lackadaisical beginnings of winter.

_ The layer of frost broke with every step, silently with my careful steps. The clouded-over sun poked through the canopy infected with ice. Everything was white and blue instead of green and brown—so different yet so beautiful. _

I open my eyes to the reality of the dark fortress around me, and not the frozen forest I would rather be. I half-expected Cole to appear at my side again, and I’m a little disappointed that he does not. The windows of the towers glow like over-large orange stars that only grow in size as I come ever closer to the great hall.

My hood hides my face from the people who still linger inside while I traverse the floor to the door that leads to the stairs up to the library. I would feel bad if I broke my not-promise to Sessa; not to mention that I don’t want to face the disapproval that would follow if I  _ did  _ stay in our room the entire night.

I don’t exactly understand why the thought of me doing so is so deplorable to her and Agnes, it’s not as though I need to talk to other people in order to survive. I do just fine on my own.

When I find myself on the level of the rotunda where bookshelves line the walls, I peruse the titles for something interesting. Most of them are historical, educational, or biographical in nature, unfortunately. If I wanted to read something informative, I would have just continued with that accursed one about lyrium effects on plants!

My finger eventually pauses on a particular title that might be an actual  _ story _ , and I pull it out from its place.  _ The Viper’s Nest _ by Varric Tethras—the dwarf from earlier is an author, it seems.

I take the book and look around the candle-lit room for a place where I might be able to read without people thinking I’m weird, but when my gaze catches movement down in the first floor of the rotunda, I get closer to the railings to peer over them.

I watch as Solas uses his paintbrush to go over the lines of the mural of Haven’s destruction with small, precise movements. The way he flicks his wrist with long, elegant fingers holding the brush is somehow fascinating, and before I realize it, I’m tiptoeing down the stairs without a sound.

I peek around the archway and at the elf who’s back faces me. Varric’s book is held tightly against my side, momentarily forgotten now that my attention is enticed elsewhere.

The squawking of a raven far above breaks me from my strange reverie, and I notice that to the left of the archway stands the large, unoccupied couch.

What if I just… read here, on the couch? There were no proper seating areas upstairs—other than Dorian’s chair, which I don’t dare touch—so it’s not like I have no excuse… 

My feet pad from the stairwell to the couch, keeping my eyes locked on Solas’s form lest he turn around the moment I look away.

I tuck myself into the corner of the couch, legs bent up beside me, and I open to the first page of the book.

…Except I seem to be having a hard time focusing on the words. Every other sentence has me glancing back up to the elf to reassure myself that he’s still painting over the fiery oranges that engulf the depiction of Haven. He turns to the side, almost far enough to see me, to pick up a different color and touch up the lines of the mountains.

Ugh, stop  _ staring  _ at him, you creep!

I glue my eyes to the pages before me, taking in every word and never looking up once.

Varric, as it turns out, is a very good writer, and I quickly lose myself to the story.

~

The fresco dedicated to Haven and the arrival of Corypheus may have been finished, but Solas, after pondering over it for a few days, decided that some minor changes had to be made. The colors of the flames did not show enough depth, the lines of the snowy mountain peaks were not sharp enough, and small details here and there must be added so nothing appears flat and boring. The others have yet to express dislike towards any of the murals, yet it never quells the ever-critical opinions Solas holds for his own work. Until he is proud of a creation, he will make changes as he sees fit.

Solas uses a rag to wipe his brushes and knives clean of pigment, finally satisfied with the fresco. However, he stops in his tracks when he turns around at the sight of a person casually reading on the couch. She does not appear to care where she is, and instead to only the pages before her. This sort of thing has never happened before; people typically avoid sharing this space with him, even just to pass through.

He finally recognizes her as the elf from the day before. The hood she clinged to before is pulled back to expose her features in full, which made it difficult to connect the elf on the couch to the elf from yesterday since Solas had associated that ratty green hood with her entire being. In other words, it is good to know what someone properly looks like.

He silently glides closer to the couch, not doing anything that might disturb her reverie. She is intensely focused on what she reads—her eyes closely follow the words and ignore everything else around as if it were the only thing that existed.

He still has questions about her. Perhaps he could ask them?

~

“There is entertainment at the tavern tonight, and you would rather spend your night reading?”

I jump at the sudden, but amused voice. I look up to find the speaker and… 

Oh, crap.

Solas stands, hands behind his back, in front of the couch. Most of the light from the library above has been extinguished, leaving only the faint glowings of nearby candles to illuminate his blank expression.

I should have known better than to sit down here and invade his space. I push myself further back into the corner of the couch, wanting to put as much distance between us as possible.

“I, um… yes, ser.” I hang my head low to hide my embarrassment and shame. “I’m sorry for coming in without asking. You looked busy and I didnt want to disturb you and I just wanted a quiet place to read, and I assumed that it would be alright, which I should not have. I’m sorry.” My excuses quickly ramble out, as I had no time to prepare a comprehensible and respectful explanation. I hope he does not notice how shaky I am.

“The room hardly belongs to  _ me _ , although there seems to be an unspoken agreement that it does.” He concedes. Funny that it sounds like he’s smiling. Though when I look up, I see that he is. It’s a slight smile that has more to do with the crinkling in his eyes, but it’s a smile nonetheless.

He should be reprimanding me… 

“What is it that you do here?” Asks Solas.

_ Again  _ with the questions, it seems.

“I’m an alchemist.” I say.

“Are you not renovating the garden with the other apothecary? I’ve not seen you among them.”

I watch my fingers fiddle with one another in my lap. “No, they have me down in the undercroft making whatever people request that the others can’t handle.”

“By yourself?”

“That seems to be the case, yes, and I think that the apothecary themselves had more to do with my placement than whoever ordered them all to dig up the dirt.”

“Ah, that would be the Inquisitor. She was quite adamant that the garden needed to be tidied to ‘please the persnickety chantry sisters’.”

I snort, despite my nervousness. I don’t know what else to say, so I sit in reticence. Solas does not move from the place where he stands. I want to ask him where he’s from, or how he knows Elven, but I fear those questions would be offensive or uncomfortable…

Solas is the one who halts the silence in the form of a question. “Do you often encounter spirits in the Fade? You mentioned that you are familiar with them.”

I pause while I decide how much of the truth would be safe enough to reveal, and Solas is seemingly content to wait for my answer. From what Cole said yesterday, it makes it especially hard to lie about this without creating contradictions.

I drop my voice to a quieter tone. “I will say it as before: more than most people.”

“Do you not fear demons or possession?” Solas inquires with what sounds like honest interest, and not with preconceived malice formed from the opinions of the masses.

“No, but that isn’t to say that I’m not careful. I’m capable of knowing when a demon wants to harm me, and the same goes to escaping dangerous situations.” I risk another glance at Solas’s face. “I just ask that you believe me…”

_ “Ma nuvenin, da’len.”  _ He replies, switching back to the language I had hoped to forget. I ignore the part where he called me a child, knowing that his willingness to understand is more important.

_ “Ma… ma serannas.”  _ I thank him in the same manner; my aversion to the words matters little compared to respect.

“Spirits preserve ancient memories and thus, ancient knowledge otherwise forgotten by those who walk the waking world. That you do not shy away from spirits simply due to unjustified fears is commendable; there is a great deal that can be learned from them, and not only from spirits of wisdom.” Solas states with a nod.

Commendable? Since when do people find that to be  _ commendable _ ?

“Do you know much about spirits and the Fade?” I query. Solas’s eyes light up and his shoulders pull back ever so slightly.

“Yes, I know a great deal. I would be happy to share anything if you have questions.”

The corners of my mouth curl into a smile. Setting the book down on the couch, I stand up to my feet because honestly, in most situations it feels awkward when one person sits while the other stands.

“How is Cole real? Well,  _ physical _ , I mean, I didn’t even know it was possible, but there he is.” I excitedly ask as soon as the question strikes me.

“Cole is unique, and his nature is not so easily defined, especially with our limited understanding of him. He did not enter this world by means of possession, nor do I believe he was brought across the Veil against his will. What I do know is this: he seeks only to help, and he is allowed to do so.”

“Is no one afraid of him?”

“He has the ability to make people forget his presence, if he thinks they would be better off that way.”

My brows furrow in thought. “And I remember him…” I ponder aloud.

So the odd spirit of compassion feels reasonably safe around me? The very notion is enough to make me feel warm and fuzzy.

Solas has a peculiar look across his face, one that I can’t quite name. I accidentally make direct contact with his eyes and I quickly look down at the floor.

“Very rarely do I find others who share your attitude towards spirits. Those that do often have a past isolated from the prevailing perceptions within civilization.” He asserts, yet he somehow implies a question as well.

“I have… wandered, from place to place, yes.”

His head tilts somewhat to the side. “Not among cities?”

“I tend to avoid those. Spirits are far better company than people, anyway.”

“I agree, and the memories they preserve are fascinating.” Excitement grows in Solas’s voice. “They change respectively to your physical location; every place has stories, and stories hold knowledge.”

“Do… do you know any stories?”

I catch a glimpse of a smile forming on his lips.

And that is how we end up talking for, what? An hour? I listen with insatiable interest to Solas’s stories about his journeys in the dreaming world. For one, he tells about a young qunari who felt so trapped within the confines of the Qun, that she rebelled in small, tiny ways, such as tucking an extra pinch of sugar into the dough of the bread she was to bake. I could not help but smile broadly at the thought of such a minor thing causing so much joy. Another story he shares involves a spirit who no longer knew what it was, since any words that were used to describe it had been long since forgotten. I ask Solas questions about what the spirit was like, and I find that I, too, know of no words that might accurately describe the spirit. Many of his other stories are about how he traveled through Thedas to dream in old ruins, all to discover memories known only by the spirits as no one had survived after the battles that took place there to remember them.

I’m hesitant with the idea at first, but I tell him a story of my own once I feel brave enough.

“I was sleeping in a tree somewhere near Lothering, and there was a spirit who showed the memory of a man sitting in that same tree. He sang a song with words I didn’t understand, but it was beautiful, expressing great pains and sorrow so powerfully that words were unnecessary to understand the  _ emotion _ . The man sang until the sun began to rise, then he hung himself by the very bough I slept on. His home was Lothering, and his family perished from the darkspawn horde while he was travelling back from Orlais.” A pause follows, and Solas has a contemplative expression. I look down at my feet again.

“I’m sorry, ser, I should not have kept you this long… I enjoyed talking, though.” I say.

“It was nothing, I enjoyed myself as well.”

I give him a small smile. “Have a good rest of your night, ser.” I bow my head and turn to leave before the forming blush on my cheeks becomes too apparent.

“And you as well.”

I stop just before the exit to turn back and pick up the book I had previously abandoned on the couch, and I swiftly walk through the great hall and out the grand doors.

-

What  _ was  _ that!? You idiot, you wasted so much of his time indulging in your stupid curiosity!

But… he did say he enjoyed himself, so was it  _ really  _ a waste of time?

All I know is that Love is going to  _ lose _ it next time I see her.

It’s very dark outside of Skyhold’s buildings, and the only people I cross paths with are the guards stationed at every other point. From where I walk towards my room, my elven ears can hear the rambunctious shouts and guffaws coming from the tavern, and my eyes catch the flash of light that comes from the tavern door when it slams open, then closed again—a silhouette departs from there.

I shiver. I have to hold my cloak tight against me to withstand the chilly wind.

It’s right before I enter the building that holds my room when a voice calls out.

“Ay! Rabbit! Come ‘ere, I’ve gotta nice, big carrot for ye ta nibble on!”

I freeze. The voice is slurred and loud, indicating that he was a part of the tavern entertainment.

“You a deaf rabbit? I said come ‘ere!” He shouts again. Clenching my fists to my side, I turn around to face the dark-haired man. I can smell the ale from here.

“I don’t like carrots.” I snap, disregarding the intended meaning of his metaphor. The man stumbles closer to me as I back up into a wall that I should have remembered was there.

A wall behind me means I can’t run in the opposite direction. The door is still not quite close enough to reach, so it’s not an option to run inside. There are no guards or people close by.

This is bad.

“Aw, wha’s the matter? You a virgin or somethin’? Come ‘ere, pretty bunny, an’ I’ll show ye wha’ it feels like for a man to show ye a good time.”

He leans over me, pressing his hands against the wall to trap me on either side with his arms and with the sickening scent of alcohol on his breath. I turn my head to the side to look away, still unable to escape the smell or the fear.

As my hands turn numb, my throat constricts and my breathing is forced to quicken to compensate, despite making it even harder to take in air.

I don’t want to fight.

He removes his right hand from the wall, bringing his disgusting fingers to my jaw. They roughly trace over the pointed bone below my ear, then down to my chin, pressing over my neck and nearly choking, over my hip and grazing my backside, across my thigh…

_ Enough _ .

Mythal, forgive me. I never wanted this.

Raising my left leg, bent between us, I deliver a forceful kick below the sternum of his ribcage. Paired with his inebriation, he loses his balance and stumbles backwards with an  _ oomph _ . I turn to run, but not before he reaches out to grab the hood of my cloak. He pulls it off my head and keeps pulling until it digs into my neck, dragging me back to him.

“You bitch!” He roars as he tries—and fails—to throw me to the ground. My feet stay firmly planted among the grass, allowing me to send another kick backwards that makes him finally release his hold on my hood. The corner of my eye catches the beginning movements of a punch, and I turn to face him with my forearms blocking my face to disrupt the swinging blow. While he’s momentarily stunned, I take advantage of his brief pause to grab the wrist of his punching arm and place a punch of my own on the outside of his elbow, one that produces a disturbing  _ crack _ as the elbow bends the wrong way. He squeals like the pig he is.

Then he lunges at me, using his full weight that I had no chance of countering to force me to fall to the ground. His unbroken arm pins my neck and his legs straddle over my much smaller body. Unfortunately for him, I have teeth.

I bite the closest exposed expanse of skin with as much strength my jaw can muster. He screams, but I don’t stop. Not even when I taste hot, irony blood or when bone stops me from going any deeper. He has to tear himself away and off from over top of me to free his now-mangled hand.

I spit into the grass the blood and bits of flesh that remained in my mouth.

The man wastes no time and scurries away, shouting obscenities as a last-ditch effort to make me feel bad for existing as I am. I stand frozen, breathing deeply to calm my nerves and to convince myself that I’m okay.

“You alright?”

I jump and whip around, my stance defensive. I see that the voice belongs to The Iron Bull, a terrifying sight in the darkness. His expression is nothing but pure concern, though.

“Um, I…” I run my hands through my hair, then look at them to see how much they shake. “I… don’t know. Did… did you see any of that?” I ask, voice wavering before settling into a hoarse whisper.

“Yeah, I caught the end. By the time I got close enough to do anything, you’d already handled it.” He says, impressed.

“Am I in trouble?”

“Nah, that guy’s been an asshole all night. He gets real touchy with the barmaids when he’s drunk, about time someone taught him a lesson.” He justifies, but it does little to comfort me. I keep staring at my hands for a few more beats of my heart, then set them back at my sides. “Seriously, though, you okay?”

I sigh. “I will be. I’m… going to go.”

I don’t look at The Iron Bull again when I turn to enter the building; I have only enough bravery to gaze at the floor of the halls as I quickly walk to my room.

-

I tentatively close the door behind me, but it doesn’t matter how quietly I can close it, because Agnes is still awake. Sessa lays in her bed, cheeks flushed from drinking and entirely zonked out. The other elf is pulling her short hair back, and pauses when she notices me. Her eyes soften.

“Oh, what’s wrong?” Agnes takes a step forward.

I lean my back against the door and tap my fingers on it. I don’t know what to say.

“There’s blood on your face.” She remarks rather calmly. I use the end of my cloak to wipe at my mouth, staining the dusty green with a streak of dark red. I look back to Agnes, who nods. “Yeah, you got it. Do you want to talk about it?”

I slowly shake my head.

“Okay.” Is her only reply. She says nothing else to me while I change into sleeping clothes and braid my hair. I wait until Agnes turns in for the night to do the same, keeping a hand under my pillow to grip the knife I hid there.

I should have had it on me. Only desperate people pick a fight with someone who holds a weapon while they only have their fists. If I had it, then maybe I could have scared the man away. Maybe I would not have a bruise on my forearm from blocking the swing. Maybe I would not have had to break his arm. Maybe I would not have had to taste his skin and blood or feel the bones warp between my teeth.

These thoughts haunt me until I fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have but two declarations:  
> -Updates are going to start slowing down; college is kicking my butt right now  
> -Thank you everyone for leaving kudos, comments, and so on and so forth, they make my day every single time :)


	5. Boxes

I run. Weaving through the maze of trees, mud splashing up with every bound, I run as fast as my lungs and legs allow. I hear the shouts and yelps and cries and I do not stop to look behind, not even when an arrow pierces deep within my shoulder blade. I stumble only once, balance lost, slipping through the slick mud before regaining my sure footing. The rain pours ceaselessly and thunder rolls above, I see naught but water droplets, a white and fuzzy sheen that blinds. I run without a second thought—my feet know this forest well—my left hand firmly holds the puncture at the arrow wound, preventing further tearing by the pointed tip inside.

Around a tree appears Junris, standing in my current path. Graceless steps and mousy hair, does whatever _they_ desire and always goes too far beyond. He lunges as I dodge aside, switching routes and spraying mud. He lets out a groaning cry, sounding so unlike himself.

Something shifts, warps, as I realize that this is not quite right. I stop, pausing in between two towering trees and letting the rain wash over me. I wish for it to halt, and it agrees. Pebbles of water suspend in the air, little dots frozen in time.

Silence.

With my hands I brush over them and the spheres I touch run down my forearms, no longer stalled. I turn back to face who chases me, unfazed by the raindrops he barrels through.

“Stop,” I say, “and show yourself.” Junris slows, raises a sword, prepared to strike. “I said show yourself, demon.” I repeat. The elf convulses, reluctant.

My voice emerges stern and strong. “I will not be afraid of you, no matter what you try. Show me what you are so I might surely understand.”

Junris’s features darken, turning sharp, baring jagged teeth. His limbs lengthen, height grows, skin rips away, all revealing underneath the monstrous form of Terror. He looms far over me, screeching a cacophony of _their_ screams. A chill shoots down my back but I do not let it affect me.

“Terror. A spawn of fear. You seek out the terrified and bask in it like a cat to the sun.” I look up into its many hollow eyes. I step back with every forward step the demon takes. In my mind I ready an escape away to somewhere else for when Terror attacks.

“I pity that you no longer know benevolence; you were distorted from what you used to be, it is _not your fault_.”

Terror growls low and continues prowling forward, tail swishing back and forth.

“I cannot help but wonder: what were you before? Courage or compassion? Perhaps learning or purpose? Of course, they would never sound familiar now that you have forgotten them.”

His long legs bend before he leaps into the air.

Time to go.

I change the Fade, leaving the nightmare behind. The surroundings melt into a different forest, one of cool breezes and clear, starry skies. The arrow embedded in my shoulder dissipates, along with the blood and pain.

I sigh.

Time and time again I have tried to communicate with spirits whose purpose was denied, but it always ends the same. They either try to hurt me, possess me, tempt me, or take something from me—often something I know or a particular memory. I never let them succeed; it’s never worth the consequences.

Slowly, I walk towards the largest tree that stands solitarily on top of the hill. The grass pokes my bare feet and the crickets hidden in dark crevices chirp as an orchestra without a settled rhythm. A pale pink and wispy figure emerges from the tree’s base, floating into view as if she was waiting inside of it.

Saying nothing, I come closer to the spirit of love. Her head tilts to the side and her glowing eyes are wide; a question that she already knows the answer to.

I show her, instead of telling her, and despite knowing that she doesn’t need to witness my memories to become aware of their existence.

Seeing them again for myself helps me make sense of them, especially if I had missed something the first time.

I think back to earlier this evening and the Fade visualizes it before us—me, back up against the wall with the man trapping me with his arms and large frame. The smell of alcohol still stings my nose. Love watches as his fingers trail down my body from jaw to thigh and the fight that followed when I kicked him off of me. It goes by much faster than what it had felt like during the actual event, now that I’m seeing it from an outsider’s perspective. Time had seemed to slow, and every second felt like a minute drawn out to an agonizing length that refused to end until the next second _demanded_ to occur. But in reality, it only lasted for two minutes.

Funny how that happens…

Love gazes at me with empathetic eyes. She says nothing, as per usual when this sort of thing happens. Her understanding is more important than the empty, scripted, pitying words often shared between people of the waking world. Very rarely do those people mean what they say; a chance to raise one’s own reputation as a compassionate person is never ignored. Especially in Orlais, with pompous nobles who eat their frilly cakes and cookies without any remorse for the elves that slaved over them, ensuring every single swirl of frosting is perfect, while they are raped and beaten in the streets by the ‘honorable’ chevaliers.

I change the scene to that of Solas and I’s conversation in the rotunda, a happier moment to lighten the mood. Love listens and looks attentively with that sly smile of hers as she drifts around our mimicked forms, expression dreamy. I internally cringe every time I hear myself stumble over my words or do something minutely awkward, but Solas does not appear to have noticed or cared. Of course, this being the Fade’s rendition of my memory, some small details that I missed while I stared at the ground would not be present. Any irritated or disdainful expressions that I didn’t catch would not happen here.

The rotunda evaporates, and Love and I are beneath the tree again. We find a spot among the large, twisting roots to sit together.

“You’re very brave.” Love declares.

I shake my head. “If I was brave, then I would not be so afraid of everything. I can barely look a person in the eye without panicking…”

“You’re _not_ afraid of everything, only of the things that might hurt you, which you learned from experience and reassurement of those experiences. Fear is a necessary part of survival and without it, you wouldn’t know when to run and hide.”

“I _always_ want to run and hide, though.”

Love hums with opposition. “Not true. You stand your ground more often than not. You fought back tonight. You never ran away from the qunari. You never hid from the healer who helped you. You asked for the book. You talked to _him_!” Love’s pink self becomes brighter as she smiles. “Don’t discredit yourself. You’re braver than you think.”

Without replying, I run my hands through the grass that grows out from beneath the tree roots. The blades intertwine with my fingers like thick locks of hair.

“Sometimes I wonder: what if everything was different? What if… what if I never…” My hands tightly grasp onto the grass, and somehow I resist the urge to pull them up from the dirt.

Love’s smile fades. “Ignore what could’ve _been_ and focus on what _is_. And besides, I doubt you would be any happier.” She assures.

“How can you be sure?” I ask, skeptical. I release my hold on the fistfuls of grass.

“Were you happy _then_?”

I’m quiet while I sift through my thoughts.

After a long moment, I slowly shake my head.

Love rises and extends a hand to me. “Come ooooon! Let’s talk about that elf of yours!”

I fail to keep my mouth from curving up into a smile.

I take her hand with a small laugh. “He’s not _mine_ , but sure. Anything to change the subject.”

I stand and with our hands still entwined, the spirit leads me in a random direction through the thicker expanses of trees. While we walk, she offers me never-ending ‘advice’ on how to get closer to Solas, from having me strike up conversation with him to leaving a friendly letter on his desk. When I refuse all of them without a second thought, she goes to the extreme and suggests that I pretend to fall over the railings of the library, all to get him to ‘save’ me.

I tell Love that it’s a stupid and horrible idea, despite both of us finding it amusing.

She then goes on to gush about how ‘cute’ it was when Solas and I talked, unaware of my embarrassment, and any attempt to get her to stop talking is only met with even more enthusiastic, musical babbling.

I finally decide to just let her have her fun. Love’s rosy hues are very bright with delight, just like her widened smile. The contagiousness of her happiness is enough to overpower the remnants of my previously sour mood—I smile with every one of Love’s smiles for the rest of the night.

-

I open my eyes to darkness; I lay face down into my pillow. My hand still clutches the knife underneath it.

Pushing myself up to my feet, I stretch my arms above my head and then my legs to wake my muscles up. I take the opportunity to check the forearm that blocked the blow from my… _encounter_ last night.

And there is a dark purple bruise right below my left elbow, just as I predicted there would be. I suppose I’m lucky the bone isn’t cracked—humans are stronger than they typically appear.

Looking over to Agnes and Sessa, I see that they are still asleep. I silently ready myself for the day by unbraiding my long hair, dressing into a dark brown tunic and green leggings I found in my chest, and at last putting my cloak on over top. I hesitate before I swing my pack over my shoulder, glancing back to the pillow where my knife hides.

I take it and, without a proper place to conceal it on my person, I put it in my pack. I let the handle poke out from the opening so that I could quickly grab it if the need arises.

I have really got to get a new belt… then I could attach the knife to my hip and be done with it, much like how I kept my daggers.

However, like with everything else, those are long gone.

I leave the room, closing the door behind me without a sound.

When I get outside, I see that the sky is covered with a blanket of dark clouds. It’s probably going to rain today, which might interfere with my plans. I don’t look at the spot where I fought the man as I pass it on my way to the mess hall.

It would be a lie to say that I’m disappointed the mess is rather empty this morning, most likely due to so many people participating in last night’s drunken revelry. I still feel drained from the sheer amount of interaction I had yesterday—even after sleeping for many hours—so the uncharacteristic quietness is a welcome change.

I spend more time eating breakfast than I would on a normal day to enjoy the peace for at least a little while before I head to the undercroft.

-

At my station, I notice an extra slip of paper next to the list of requests. It’s a note from Adan, written in a script whose messiness rivals my own. It says that I should expect to be moved to a different location near the gardens within the next few days, since the initial renovations are apparently finished and all that’s left to do is prepare a unified space for all of the apothecary and alchemists.

Fantastic…

And here I thought I would be able to work alone for the entirety of my time with the Inquisition. Although, it _was_ kind of Adan to give me a heads up.

With an irritated sigh, I get to work, falling back into my efficient rhythm of preparing multiple potions at the same time before setting out to deliver a completed batch.

I purposely delay the mixing of the stamina draught requested by The Iron Bull (which, from the conversation between Agnes and Sessa, I have an inkling that it’s for something more _personal_ ) so I can, in turn, delay having to approach him. He probably has more questions to poke me with, especially after what he saw me do to that human…

The second batch of potions, poultices, and tonics has me walking outside again, and I see my prediction for rain was correct. A light and chilly drizzle mists over the people, buildings, and the ground. Cold water pushes up between my toes every time I step into a shallow puddle obscured by the grass.

It would bother most people, but not me. I actually like the feeling. I will never understand the preference for wearing something over feet; it feels far too big and clunky, it makes you clumsy, you can’t use your toes, you can’t feel the ground, and not to mention shoes of any kind are simply expensive. I once set out to buy a pair of boots so Orlesians (and even some Fereldans on the odd occasion) would stop calling me ‘uncivilized’ when I passed through their cities, but the cheapest pair I saw was roughly a quarter of my entire savings. I figured my money was best spent on a bundle of dragonthorn leaves… that may or may not have cost more than the boots…

I can make a profit by making stuff from dragonthorn leaves, not by encasing my feet with leather and cloth so _others_ feel more comfortable!

The rain has picked up enough so that it’s easy to notice it down in the undercroft. More water than usual drips down the large icicles, and some freezes at the tips, further elongated them. The nearby waterfall certainly adds to that effect. Fortunately, the wind is not blowing directly into the room from the side without a wall. If it were, then all of my papers would become soaked because I’m not proficient enough with magic to create a barrier around my things.

I finish up the last handful of potions and arrange them into my pack, prepared to trek up the stairs again.

After delivering the others around Skyhold, I set my course towards the tavern. I don’t know of anywhere else The Iron Bull could be, so I think it’s my best bet.

Inside, my wet cloak tracks water all over the floor while I traverse the room to where I saw the qunari before.

And of course, he isn’t here.

I look around a bit for something that might give me a hint as to where a giant person spends his time, and I only see empty chairs and tables, and maybe a few abandoned mugs. Nothing useful.

Someone clears their throat behind me. I jump slightly, and turn to see a blonde elf with bright green vallaslin, curved lines and dots dedicated to Dirthamen.

“Looking for someone?” She asks, accent thick.

I feel panic start to rise in my chest, while in my stomach rests a heavy pit of loathing.

No no no. No. I will talk to literally _anyone_ else who’s not a Dalish. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to do this! Would it be rude to walk away?

Yes, you idiot. What ever happened to being brave? Love would slap you right now if she could…

I just need to calm down. Breath in and breathe out. Simple.

How long has it been? How long has she been staring at me, waiting for an answer?

Far too long, I’m making this worse!

Okay, it was only a matter of time before I encountered a Dalish—Skyhold has a lot of different kinds of people. Just treat her like anybody else.

I open my mouth to speak, and nothing comes out.

Great. Good job, you awkward sack of crap.

I cough and try again. “Um… yeah. I’m uh… looking for The Iron Bull.” I manage to stammer out. The Dalish woman smiles at me.

“He’s out by the training yards. Go out the door, hang a sharp left, then go straight.” She tells me with a wink.

I don’t exactly understand what the wink means in this sort of context… is she suggesting something? Maybe she knows something I don’t? Or could it be some weird cultural Dalish thing?

I forget about it and give her a smile with a nod. “Thank you.” I mumble.

The ground is the only place where I look as I exit the tavern. I watch the water splash up from my feet with every swift step, eager to trade the company of a Dalish with that of a qunari’s.

I find The Iron Bull in the middle of a muddy sparring ring on the outer edges of the training yards, pushing back a soaked human with a shield. Tentatively, I only approach as close as I believe would allow me to go largely unnoticed.

The human charges forward with a shield of his own, but is pushed back once again by the bigger opponent and slides in the mud before retaking his footing.

“Come _on_ , Krem! You can’t just ‘go forward’ and expect it to work!” Bellows out from The Iron Bull. “You’ve gotta give it some _vigor_!”

“Ah, yes, because I’ve got enough of that to move _your_ fat ass.” The human quips. I stifle a laugh of my own.

The human tries again, only succeeding in causing The Iron Bull to take a step backwards.

“Better.” He announces. The human, Krem, I believe is what he was called, notices my presence.

He nods at me in greeting. “Looks like we’ve got an audience.” The Iron Bull follows Krem’s gaze to me. I look at my toes before his eye meets mine.

“I have that draught for you, The Iron Bull, ser. I was told I would find you here, I’m sorry if I’m intruding.” I justify before either of the men could jump to the assumption that I’m only here to watch. I fish the stamina draught out of my pack to prove it further. The Iron Bull walks up to the fence of the ring, and I pass the bottle to him.

“Thanks,” he says, “maybe I should pit you against Krem here, eh? He always hesitates with the ladies, holding back from throwing a real punch.”

Um. What.

He wants me to _spar_ with the human?

“I… I’m sorry?” I ask, unsure whether or not I heard him correctly.

The Iron Bull snorts. “Yeah! I know you can take care of yourself. It’s up to you, though, I won’t make you.”

Honestly, I consider it. He knows I can fight, so it’s no use trying to keep that under wraps. The idea of being able to practice this without having my life on the line is also tempting… I always aspire to improve whatever skills I have. I would also be helping out Krem, if what The Iron Bull says is true.

After contemplating it, I hang my pack and my cloak on a fence post and tie my hair back.

I need to show myself that I’m as brave as Love says before I can believe it. This may not be the scariest thing in the world, but it’s a start.

I vault over the fence. The Iron Bull, with a smile on his face, leads Krem and I to the middle of the ring. He looks just about as nervous as I feel.

“Alright! This is gonna be nice and friendly. The goal is to knock your opponent to the ground.” The qunari begins, addressing more towards me than Krem, who probably already knows how this sort of thing goes.

“You can do it however you want, just try not to break your opponent’s bones.” He looks directly at me as he explains that, and I feel a twinge of embarrassment from the callback of breaking the man from last night’s elbow.

“Ready?”

I nod, reluctant.

Creators… I’m really doing this, aren’t I?

“As I’ll ever be, yeah.” Krem replies.

The Iron Bull gestures for us to begin, and both of us prepare defensive stances in place without moving. Neither of us wants to make the first move, it seems.

This is awkward… though this could also be good.

A few more seconds pass of Krem watching every part of my body, especially my arms that are still held up in front of my chest. When I’m certain that he’s _uncertain_ of my intent, I lunge forward, using the mud to slide down and around to behind his left leg in a crouched position. Before he fully registers what just happened, I grab his ankle with one hand and wrench it back while the other hand pushes into the pit of his knee, forcing it to buckle. He almost falls over, but not quite. I stand up and back away as Krem whips around to face me again.

He reaches to grab my arm and tries to pull me off balance, which is fine because I take advantage of the added momentum to knee him in his ribs. He lets go of my arm with a surprised grunt and throws a punch at my shoulder that I easily dodge by twisting out of the way.

Was he waiting until I struck first to start hitting back? I hope he doesn’t do that in _real_ fights…

Krem attempts several more jabs and I dodge every one of them. He consistently aims for my shoulders and upper abdomen, making him predictable.

I think he’s just afraid to hurt me.

The next punch he throws is the one that I catch by the forearm. I spin around so my back faces him and I yank his arm down and away from me, pulling him onto my upper back as I bend forward. He scrambles for some sort of purchase or counter attack, but by the time he finds a way to try and push himself off of me, I had already flipped him over my shoulder. He lands in the mud on his back, splashing some onto my clothes that are already drenched from the rain.

I hold out my hand for Krem to take, helping him back up to his feet. Hopefully it will help to solidify that there are no hard feelings.

The Iron Bull approaches us and clamps a massive arm over Krem’s shoulders. It’s difficult to tell, but I think the human’s cheeks are a little more pink than they were when we started.

I didn’t mean to make him feel embarrassed…

“You see, Krem? This is what happens when you hold back!” The Iron Bull grins at Krem, whose blush deepens. The Iron Bull glances back to me again, this time with an unsettlingly-neutral expression. I look down at my _very_ muddy feet.

“You did very well, I thought.” I affirm with a small smile.

I hop back over the fence without another word and collect my stuff hanging from the post, eager to remove myself from this situation and get on with something productive.

-

After stopping by my room to change into dry clothes and grabbing a small lunch at the mess, I head back to the undercroft at a swift pace so that I might keep myself as dry as possible. It’s a real shame that the leather lining on the inside of my cloak is worn to the point where I don’t think it will remain waterproof for much longer. I would hate to replace it when it’s become a sort of lucky charm; no matter what happens, this wonderful cloak of mine has yet to be lost or torn beyond repair.

At my station, I dig out my notes where I wrote down possible improvements to my ice grenade. I had originally planned to test each new version outside, but the rain might cause some different results with emergent properties that I can’t compare to the current grenade recipe—consistency is _always_ the key in these cases.

The only thing each new recipe changes is the solution wherein the enchanted frostrock is submerged, so I suppose if I test how well they freeze when coming into contact with an ice source, then I could eliminate all of the ones that don’t freeze. When it stops raining, either later today or tomorrow, I can test the rest as actual, thrown grenades to see if the solution can stay liquid before the frostrock explodes.

I scrounge around the space for as many flasks, bowls, and jars I can find. I triple check to ensure that I grab flasks _not_ meant for grenades, so I don’t get broken glass everywhere.

I doubt Harritt would appreciate it overmuch if I did.

In each container goes a different solution at equal amounts. It looks quite silly, not to mention a bit ominous, to have a bunch of them crammed wherever I find space on the tables to put them. If a guard saw this, then they would probably think I’m trying to blow up Skyhold.

To conserve the supply of frostrocks (those things aren’t exactly cheap), I decide that magic might be the best way to do this. A layer of cold frost develops on the tip of my finger, which I dip into a jar that holds one of the many solutions.

The liquid freezes as it’s supposed to, and I test its strength by driving a very dull knife into it. The knife easily breaks through the ice, which I make note of.

I repeat this process over and over again until every single solution goes through it. A little less than half of them do not freeze at all, a few turn into slush, and the remaining that _do_ freeze are either weak enough for a knife to break through or strong enough so that the knife can only chip it.

However, there is one solution in particular that’s very interesting. When it froze, the knife simply bounced off of the ice without making a dent. I’m eager to see that one as a grenade, except I have a suspicion that it will solidify long before it’s meant to.

I make a list of every solution that needs to be tested as a formal grenade. A cursory glance at the weather tells me that I might be able to do so today after all; the rain has lessened during the passing hours to the point where the sun can show itself through the parting clouds.

The only thing I can do is hope it either stays that way or improves even more.

I hastily, yet carefully, prepare as many of the new grenades that will fit in my pack as I can. I don’t want to risk losing to the weather again, so I have no time to let my nerves cause hesitation. Oftentimes, I end up spending more time thinking about whether or not doing a particular thing is a good idea than I do _actually_ _doing_ said thing.

It’s irritatingly inefficient, and it’s my own damn fault.

Once the last grenade is finished and packed, I set course for the training yards again.

Surely The Iron Bull won’t still be there. Right? Most people tend to avoid staying out in the rain for several hours at a time.

Unless he falls outside of the ‘most people’ category, which is growing ever larger the longer I’m at Skyhold. First it was the man who called for a healer to help me when I arrived with blue skin and deep cuts on my feet. The best of most people would have pitiful expressions and would never show an interest in helping me. Adan gave me a job that I enjoy instead of tossing me to the latrine-diggers on the basis of having pointed ears, or handing me off to the templars for technically being an apostate. Then there’s Cole, who was the last thing I had expected to find here. And Solas…

I still don’t have a very good grasp on who Solas is. He and I experience spirits and the Fade in similar ways; having someone to speak to about the subject is honestly unbelievable. I had thought I was entirely alone on the front.

Part of me wishes I had more excuses to spend time with him, and I quickly snuff away the desire. It’s unrealistic and dangerous.

I can’t afford to let my guard down the very moment someone like Solas comes around, no matter how much I like being near them.

Cole appears by my side, matching my strides as I walk through the many grassy (and still wet) yards of Skyhold.

“Classifying categories with comparable characteristics; boxes within boxes with grey, overlapping walls. Sometimes the little boxes overlap with the big ones, but not with the little ones inside of the big box.” He says.

“That’s one way of putting it.” I reply, impressed he was able to describe it in words.

“Why doesn’t Solas have a box?” He asks, wide eyes looking at me from under his floppy hat.

“I haven’t made one yet,” I sigh, “I still have to figure out what kind of box it needs to be.” I decide to continue with Cole’s ‘box’ analogy for the sake of simplicity.

“Couldn’t you make it a ‘Solas’ box?”

I snort. “Then _everyone_ would need to have their own box, rendering the big boxes cluttered and ultimately useless. They are there to sort similar people together as much as possible so I can predict how they might act, and in turn how much of a danger they are to me.”

“The biggest box holds the big boxes which hold the little boxes that hold names, labels of presumed malevolence: ‘arrogant’, ‘ignorant’, ‘petulant’, benevolence ignored. Could you put Solas outside of the biggest box?”

One of my brows quirks up in confusion. “You want me to put him outside of the ‘people’ box?”

“ _I’m_ outside of it…”

“Spirits have their own box far away from the ‘people’ box, with their own categories inside.” I explain. “Animals and plants both live, eat, and breathe in their own ways, but an animal can’t be judged as a plant because an animal _isn’t_ a plant… does that make any sense?”

“Yes.” He answers simply. “You should put a ‘Solas’ box outside the ‘people’ and ‘spirit’ boxes. He doesn’t fit in either; the labels don’t match very well.”

“I’ll think about it.” I assure him.

Cole disappears just as I arrive at the side of the training yard that has the plethora of dummies.

If anyone heard our conversation, they would probably think I’m insane. Sometimes _I_ even think I’m a little mad.

I look around the relatively empty area, happy to see that the rain has completely stopped and the only traces of it lie with the puddles strewn over the ground.

I set up at the same dummy as before, with my pack marking the distance from where I plan to throw the grenades. I retrieve my note-taking paper, quill, and the first grenade my fingers land on before launching it at the dummy’s head. After writing down the results, I do the same to the next grenade and the next until I run out.

Of the ones tested so far, only three had adequately icy explosions, meaning that it greatly narrows down what the perfect solution to use is. The training dummy is an absolute mess, with frost, jagged chunks, and icy tendrils coating it from head to stick and the grass below it. Normally, I would have left it as is while I made the rest of the grenades to save the clean up for the very end, however I would feel guilty if someone felt obligated, or is ordered, to clean it before I got around to it. So, I pick up the broken glass shards and melt the substances covering the dummy with magic. There’s a lot more to melt this time and the flames curling over my fingers flicker out more than once.

And it makes me _really_ lightheaded—it’s nothing a few short breaks won’t fix, though.

With that taken care of, I make the last half of the grenades back in the undercroft and return to the training yards. I silently thank the Creators that the sky is maintaining its good weather.

I bombard the dummy with ice grenades in the same, repetitive manner just as I had earlier, and only two of them worked well. One grenade in particular (namely the one that had frozen _very_ well when I dipped a frosted finger into the liquid) freezes with an additional, forceful acceleration with the explosion. Perhaps we have a winner? I can’t say for sure, I will have to repeat this process with the five successful grenades to compare them, then continue making minor tweaks to the best of them.

If the Inquisitor of all people is going to be interested in this, then I have to make it as good as it can be. I have had some pretty powerful clients in the past and none of them can compare the amount of power she holds in her pinky toe.

Melting the ice again is proving to be a challenging feat. A pounding headache starts after the second pass with fire magic, which only gets worse the longer I sustain the heat. Knowing that I can only keep this up for a moment or two, I focus on the sections of the dummy where the ice is the most solid.

I drop my hands with a strong exhale of breath, spent. I have to brace myself with the dummy’s shoulders as a wave of dizziness passes. I stay there for a couple more minutes until I’m certain I won’t fall over as soon as I let my legs support my full weight.

I resign myself to dig out the knife from my pack and use it to chip off the lingering ice, feeling jealous of mages who can do just about anything with a single flick of a finger.

~

The Iron bull clamors up the winding stairs of the rotunda, squeezing through the tight passages so that his wide frame and horns don’t get him stuck anywhere. On the top floor, he spots Spymaster Leliana hovering over some documents of interest with a messenger nearby. She looks up at him when he approaches.

“Ah, Iron Bull, what do you need?” Leliana asks, waving away the messenger.

“Hey, Red. I’ve got some stuff on that new alchemist, the elf, if you want it.” He tells her. The Inquisition can’t afford to let anyone join the ranks without at _least_ a look into their past—the possibility of having an unwelcome spy hiding amongst the kitchen staff is a possibility that _cannot_ be allowed, regardless of the likelihood.

And Leliana and her agents are best suited for such a critical task.

“Oh? And what did you find?”

“She knows how to fight, I’ve seen it twice now, both times hand-to-hand so I don’t know how she handles weapons. The first time it was against a touchy asshole and the second was against one of my boys in a spar.” The Iron Bull thought back to that morning. Watching Krem get all flustered from having to ‘fight’ with an attractive woman was hilarious. “She dodges more than she strikes, and when she _does_ strike she goes for points like elbows, knees, and hands. Whatever does the most damage or knocks the other guy off balance.”

Leliana nods thoughtfully. “So she knows some basic anatomy as well as her poisons… but an assassin would not so readily provide a list of her alchemical knowledge when asked. What of her behavior? Anything out of the ordinary?”

“Real nervous, fidgety, always looking everywhere at once except at the person she talks to. Mostly at the ground. It’s hard to get a good read on her when she hangs her head like that, but from what I've been able to see, there’s always fear in her eyes.”

“Could she be a spy?”

“Nah, I don’t think so. She’s almost _too_ nervous to be a spy that uses nerves as a cover story.”

“I see.”

“Did your people find anything else?”

“Nothing cohesive. She has been to nearly every corner of Thedas, save for Tevinter and the Anderfels, multiple times and without pattern. Some of my spies report that she is either held in high regard or disdain by select locals of settlements.” Leliana taps her chin. “There is nothing about her origins, however. Not even in Orlais where she claims to have been born.”

“You gonna ask her in for questioning?”

“I might, yes.”

“Just… don’t scare her too much. Boss thinks she’ll be useful and won’t be too happy if she runs off.”

The spymaster smiles. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll be sure to take some pages out of Josie’s book.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have but two declarations:  
> -I'm sorry if that "boxes" part was a bit confusing, if anyone wants clarification on what the heck I was trying to describe, let me know and I can *try* and elaborate on it (do note the emphasis on 'try')  
> -Thank you all for leaving comments and kudos, they make my day! :)


	6. The Past Should Stay There

That… wasn’t supposed to happen.

I look around at the mess I made of my workspace; a syrupy, greenish liquid covers much of the table and drips down to the floor, some flasks are overturned, and elfroot leaves are scattered about. What had happened was the batch of healing potions I was preparing was more… _experimental_ than routine, to hopefully increase the benefits as if it were a potion of pure, liquified elfroot. I only succeeded in causing a dreadful mess and an awfully loud _pop_ sound, unfortunately.

“Andraste’s knickers! What was that?” Exclaims Harritt. I hear Dagna giggle from her station.

I turn to face the human without looking up to face him, uncertain of what wrathful expression I will find if I do.

“I’m sorry if I startled you, Master Harritt. It’s just an experiment that went a bit… off.” I explain as my fingers fiddle between themselves behind my back. “I’ll clean this up right away.”

He grunts in response, which I had learned is his typical way of doing so (especially with Dagna when she tries to make him laugh). I turn back to do as I promised, picking up the leaves and collecting the viscous substance. I can’t reuse any of this now that it might be contaminated in some way, and if I send out bad health potions, then I would surely be thrown out.

At least I know _not_ to try that in the future, so it wasn’t a complete failure. In a way, failures can be like small successes towards a big success—steps of knowledge of what not to do to figure out what _to_ do. That’s how I learned… everything, really. Failing allowed me to see the mistakes and never make them again.

After cleaning up my most recent of failures, I get back to mixing up healing potions _without_ any experimental additives. Dealing with the ice grenades for the majority of the afternoon left me with the desire to do something else for a while, and I thought I might as well be productive about it until the sun starts setting. At the moment, the shadows of the mountains hint that it’s about five hours after noon, if my time-telling is accurate.

I wonder what it is that Solas does for the Inquisition… is he a researcher of some kind? I never asked him, even though I probably could have when he asked the same of me. He seems to keep a lot of books and research-y items on and around his desk, so it could be likely. Maybe he researches spirits? That is, if he is indeed a researcher. He encounters them quite often, from what he told me, so the idea isn’t entirely outlandish.

Ugh. I need to stop thinking about him.

I focus back to my work, keeping my thoughts confined within the topic of alchemy. However, my uninterrupted productivity only lasts for a short amount of time until I feel someone approach from behind.

I can’t exactly pause this batch of potions at this stage of boiling the elfroot segments, so I angle myself slightly to glance at the person who wears some kind of hooded armor with a badge displaying an engraved symbol of the Inquisition. I don’t like this.

“Um… may I help you, ser?” I ask, wary.

“Spymaster Leliana requests your presence.” The man flatly replies.

Spymaster?

_Spymaster?!_

I would rather flick a bear on the nose!

I pause in my work. “Can I ask why?” I wonder.

“That’s _her_ business, I was only sent to fetch you.”

I say nothing for a few moments, the only noise coming from the other dwellers of the room and the waterfall nearby.

This isn’t something I can refuse, is it?

“Alright,” I nod, hesitant, “just let me finish this up, then I’ll go?” The human gestures for me to continue, but he stays right where he is, intending to watch me—probably to make sure I don’t run off. I ignore him as best as I can; I can’t let this affect my work despite the rising sense of danger making it difficult.

I cap the finished potion bottles and store them in the nearby crate. I turn back to the human, who promptly leads me out of the undercroft.

-

Scenarios play in my head the very second we step into the great hall; scenarios of the worst and best cases that might await me wherever it is that I’m being led to. The human offers no information. I know he implied that he doesn’t know why for himself, but even a guess on his part would be great.

Did I do something wrong without realizing it, forgetting that I’m no longer by myself and therefore can’t do things that I have done before? No… a guard would be the one to handle that, I think. The same goes if I’m in trouble for harming the drunk human, regardless of The Iron Bull assuring me that I would _not_ be punished for it.

We start our ascent up the stairs to the library, using the side stairwell. I shun away the pricklings of disappointment I feel when we could have used the other staircase, the one in the rotunda proper, instead… for some reason. They are both staircases, so why should it matter?

Apparently _some_ part of me cares—and that part will be ignored.

What if the spymaster thinks I’m suspicious in some way? Am I walking up the stairs suspiciously? _Can_ people tell if someone is a spy or an assassin or something like that based on how they walk up stairs? Is that what _this_ guy is doing now?!

I follow him through the library as my breathing quickens with my irrational ideas, my legs quaky and unsteady. The last thing I need right now is to fall flat on my face because of my sudden inability to walk normally. I try to concentrate on my steps to rectify this, but now I’m worried that I’m making it worse. At least my face is mostly hidden by my hood, so if I do trip, then no one could really know for certain that it was _I_ who made a fool of myself.

This ‘Leliana’ person is a spymaster, that much is clear. I gave Varric, who no doubt gave it to the Inquisitor, a list of what alchemical creations I can make, so a logical explanation could be that the spymaster wants poisons for her spies without formally requesting them? Although, a simple note would have been easier. Whatever she needs _me_ for in person, must be important or delicate.

Or she believes me to be a dangerous apostate, and decided that I’m a threat and should be turned to the templars and locked up in a tower, and that she only ‘requested my presence’ to corner me? I have yet to actually see a templar at Skyhold… though I haven’t exactly been _looking_ for them, either.

The next staircase takes us to a floor above the library. Cages hang from the ceiling, little homes with doors propped open for their raven residents to come and go as their handlers please. There are people wearing the same uniform as the human I follow scurrying about with papers and sending out ravens through the windows. I see no templars or guards among them and I quietly sigh in relief.

One person in particular leans over a table, engrossed in documents that are sprawled all across it, which we approach.

“Serah, I have returned with the alchemist.” My escort tells her. She looks up and sends a soft smile my way, then waves off the human.

“Please, sit.” The spymaster—or Leliana, I guess—subtly demands, inclining her head to the chair I stand beside. I do as she says. In truth, I’m somewhat glad I don’t have to worry about my legs giving out from trembling so much.

Leliana sits in her own chair on the other side of the table to face me on a similar level. She says nothing in the first few seconds and I stare down at my twiddling thumbs, too nervous to look at her face.

“Evuna, was it?” She inquires. I note that her accent sounds Orlesian.

I nod.

“You have quite the impressive array of alchemical knowledge, so I’ve heard. I’m curious: how did you come to learn it all? Did you have a teacher?”

Oh, this is bad. This is really, really bad, and I can’t exactly rely on Agnes to save me from nosy questions this time, can I?

“I… I didn’t really have a teacher, per se,” I begin, struggling to keep my voice from wavering, “I mostly taught myself everything that I know with the help of the intermittent tome.”

“How did you accomplish that without proper instruction? Surely books cannot substitute…” Leliana remarks in a tone that suggests friendly interest, but I can tell that she’s prodding for information.

“No, serah, I referred to books for some recipes and when I was unsure of the properties of an herb or some ingredients. Practical applications I learned through trial and error alone.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

I chuckle beside myself. “Yes, _very_. That’s why I never put two things together without knowing what it might become… not to say it always goes to plan, though. Sometimes things explode.”

She hums. “And you turned your self-teachings into a livelihood, it seems.”

I freeze, holding my breath as I glance up at her face. Her eyes are kind and her lips curve into a small smirk. I can’t read her at all.

I look down at my hands again. I had not told anyone about this part of my life… how much does she know about me? _How_ does she know about me? I suppose any spymaster would have their sources, but the mere thought of someone seeking out information on me is _unnerving_.

“I did. I… I think I’m pretty good at what I do, at the risk of sounding overly prideful. I didn’t know how else I could earn money and people were willing to buy what I made so I thought I might as well.” I ramble.

“Of course. A lot of people these days have to put their skills to work if they want a loaf of bread—although, _yours_ took you to very different places.” Leliana leans forward, resting her elbows onto the table. “Dairsmuid, Amaranthine, Lydes, Val Royeaux, Kirkwall, Cumberland… just to name a select few. Some of the locals—of any settlement, really—who knew of you had quite a lot to say, or refused to acknowledge they bought anything from you.”

She shifts through a pile of papers, finally planting a finger on a paragraph of one. “One man in Montsimmard sings your praises for selling him a tonic that cleared his daughter’s pneumonia.” Her finger shifts down to another paragraph. “An elderly woman in Ansburg tells an alike story: your salve saved her brother from losing his hand, and thus saved his passion for playing the lute.” Leliana sifts through the pile again. “So many people from many corners of Thedas were helped because of you. Except for the ones who were _not_.” Her wandering hand suddenly stops to pick up a slip of paper.

My stomach drops and I swallow the lump forming in my throat.

The spymaster went on. “A rather grouchy noble in Val Royeaux claims the poison that killed his wife was purchased from you by her murderer, the noble’s jealous cousin, and swears vengeance if he ever manages to find you. Another in Antiva City admits to spending a large amount for a vial of Quiet Death to finish off a mercantile rival, only for her own mother to mistake it for her medicine and take some by a spoonful. She died before her next breath.” Leliana pauses, bringing a parturient silence that weighs down the room.

My clammy hands had stopped fidgeting and are now tightly grasped together, turning my knuckles white. My thoughts are roiling with the possibilities of what she’s getting at. She can’t be accusing me of murder. A spymaster of all people should know that _I_ was never the one who made the choice to end someone’s life… unless she’s a different kind of spymaster? I don’t know anymore. Everything about this is giving me ambiguous signals.

Leliana has been quiet for some time. Is she waiting for me to say something?

I take a deep breath. “The fletcher might sell the arrows, but the archer is the one who makes the conscious choice to shoot. I’m sorry they died, but _I_ did not kill these people.” I quietly allege.

“Oh, I’m not accusing you, I quite understand. I’m simply impressed from all that I’ve heard of you… your alchemical prowess, your capabilities of defending yourself, your _elusiveness_.” She leans back into her chair, head cocked to the side. “The locals we spoke to may have had different stories, but they all tell of how you appear in the area for a single day or less, then disappear as if you were never there. Some even expressed frustrations as to not knowing where you were when they wanted to buy something. Why not stay in one place? Would it not be easier to establish your own shop?”

“I tried to once, in Kirkwall. Barely a week passed before someone sent me a disturbingly detailed death threat. I had no way of knowing whether or not it was genuine or if they just wanted to scare off a knife-ear, so I thought that I should continue on as before: moving from place to place and never staying long enough to give someone the chance to enact their revenge… or animosity. Besides, most cities aren’t exactly safe for elves to begin with.” I explain, careful not to let my slight accent slip out like it did with Agnes and Sessa. “I only go inside them if I must.”

“But you _did_ enter cities, yes?”

“To restock on supplies.”

“Nothing else?”

“What else would I be doing?” I wonder, confused.

“A travelling alchemist is bound to be of some interest to certain third parties.” Elaborates Leliana. It does little to clarify her meaning, though. What ‘third parties’ is she talking about?

“I’m sorry, serah… I don’t understand.” I feel heat rise to my cheeks, embarrassed about my apparent ignorance. Nonetheless, she doesn’t seem to mind expanding on it further.

“Were you never offered an extra bit of coin to deliver an unnamed package from one place to another… or perhaps to swap a customer’s health tonic with one of ill effects?” She queries.

_Oh_ , I think I get it now. She wants to know if I smuggled or did something less-than-legal for higher profit.

I nervously scratch my jaw. “Uh… no. Well, I mean I sometimes got some… _nefarious_ requests now and again, but every time I told them to shove off and eat some nug droppings.”

Glancing back to her face, I catch a flicker of an amused smile.

“I got slapped quite a bit by doing that.” I add with a nervous giggle.

“As I can imagine.” Leliana puts forth. “Where is it that you’re from?”

The question is so out of the blue that it gives me pause—which soon turns into trepidation.

Tiptoeing around the truth will make me seem evasive; like I’m trying to hide something. Her being a literal master of spies, she will definitely take note of that.

“I may not have ties to any one place to call home, but I was born in eastern Orlais, if… that helps at all.” I tell her, twiddling my thumbs again. I don’t need to look at Leliana’s face to feel the penetrating gaze.

I’m honestly surprised when she leaves it at that and abruptly switches the topic once more.

“It is odd for an alchemist to know how to fight, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Is it?” I answer coolly, head inclined. I had thought everyone knew how to at least defend themselves… is that not true?

“Perhaps. I _am_ sorry for how you have been treated thus far—I assure you, the man will be punished—although it is interesting how well you defended yourself.”

I tense up. The Iron Bull is the only one who saw that. He was the only other person there…

He _told_ people— _her_ —about that!?

And he watched me spar with Krem this morning. Now I have no doubt that he just wanted to see me fight again, to, what? Gauge my capabilities to provide an accurate report to the frigging spymaster? Determine how much of a threat I am?

Ah, yes, because a twig for an elf is _definitely_ enough to foil the entire mission! I meet my first outwardly-friendly qunari and he goes off and tattles about me like I’m some sort of novelty; a bauble with quirks that are somehow concerning to terrifying people.

Who else has been telling her about me? Agness or Sessa? Did Adan tell her that I have magic? Or Dagna?

You brought this on yourself, you idiot. You stopped being careful.

“I fought back because the alternative was worse. What else is there to say?” I finally tell her.

Leliana angles forward. “Did you teach yourself this as well?”

“Yes? It’s not like it was hard… when someone tries to punch you, you either dodge it or you _get_ punched.”

“And you figured out how to use an opponent’s physical anatomy against them, by yourself?” She says, unconvinced.

I awkwardly shrug. “I guess so… is that not normal or something?”

“It is… atypical for a civilian to know such things, but that’s not to say it is unusual. I only find it intriguing when taking your aptitude with poisons into account. That overlap paired with your uncertain origins causes some concern, hence why I asked for you this evening.”

Ah. So that’s why I’m here. Me, going about my business, trying not to die, has somehow led to a combination of skill sets and trends that make people (like spymasters) think I’m dangerous.

“Ah, alright. I was wondering about that.” I mumble.

“Tell me, do your combat skills go beyond that of hand-to-hand?” Asks the spymaster.

“I used to have a couple of daggers.”

“‘Used to’?”

“They are lost.”

Leliana hums, indifferent with a hint of displeasure. We sit in silence for a short moment before she rises from her chair.

“I believe I have all that I need, and I thank you for speaking with me.” She concludes with a slight bow of her head. I quickly stand up myself, mindful of my shaking legs, and bow in the same manner in return.

I put on a small, fake smile. “It was no trouble. Please let me know if you have any more questions.”

But please _don’t_ actually do that.

I turn to leave, heading down the stairs back to the library.

I would have _bolted_ out of there and straight to the undercroft if I knew she wasn’t watching me.

-

“Evuna, darling! I was wondering when you might come by again—dear me, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Dorian’s voice startles me more than I would like to admit, and I whip around to where he stands casually by a bookshelf. I must have passed him without noticing, too caught up in trying to decide if it would be a good idea to run away and find somewhere else that isn’t Skyhold to stay at.

“Oh, hello, Ser Dorian.” I greet him with a bow. “I’m… afraid I haven’t seen any ghosts.”

“Pity.” He pouts sarcastically. “In all sincerity, though, what’s happened?”

Against my better judgement, I take a step closer to him so I can speak without being overheard.

“Spymaster Leliana wanted to speak with me, and I just came from there.” I reveal. Dorian’s eyebrows raise, taken aback.

“Whatever for?”

“My best guess is that an alchemist with an ‘aptitude with poisons’ is suspicious if she breaks someone's arm at the elbow for trying to make her ‘nibble on his carrot’, but other than that, I have no idea.” I answer rather dryly. I’m very tired of questions at this point.

He makes an odd, choking noise in surprise. “That’s… far too specific for you to be having me on. Did that—”

“—really happen? Yes, essentially.” I interrupt. “And I would prefer if we didn’t talk about it.”

I briefly scan Dorian’s face, which has taken on something resembling sympathy. I look down at my wiggling toes, feeling guilty for sounding cross.

“I’m sorry, ser, I didn’t mean to sound angry.” I say. His hand waves a dismissive gesture.

“Nonsense, you have every right to be.”

I show only a smile to show appreciation for the thought, despite silently disagreeing. I don’t have the right to hate someone when it was my own fault for letting it happen. It was _my_ fault for letting my insatiable curiosity take over, and it was _my_ fault for staying out late at night to talk to Solas. I should have known better… like always.

If _they_ were right about one thing, it would be that.

I bow a second time before Dorian could utter another word, wanting to resume my new-found liberation from the spymaster’s uncomfortable questions.

“I’ll leave you be, ser.” I spin on my heel and start towards the winding staircase as he says a lazy farewell.

Taking soft steps down the stairs, I let my fingers graze the stone walls, feeling the textures of something other than my own hands clasped together. Each digit is reluctant to straighten from being clenched as my nerves had shot up with every pressing query and speculation.

_Walls, walls, walls, everywhere I looked, no matter the direction. I would look to my left and then to my right, only to see stone walls expanding ever upward towards the sky, suffocating me as I was trapped at the bottom. The only tree I ever saw was the vhenadahl, surrounded by walls of its own save for the side that gazed out into the foundry._

I stop at the base of the stairs, before the entrance to the room whose walls tell stories—very unlike the dull, oppressive walls of Kirkwall.

Part of me wants to go back up to the library and descend down the other stairwell. The only thing that denies it being an option is that people will wonder why I bothered to go back up just to go back down when both ways lead to the same destination.

Then the weariness from the interrogation hits hard and sudden, and I slump against the wall, shoulder pressed into it. Any and all desires of interaction simply vanish, and the thought of doing anything besides nothing feels arduous.

With so many eyes around me, I had no opportunity to… I’m not sure. Be alone? Hide? Forget about my problems for a while? I almost snort at the thought of an empty stairwell acting as a moment’s respite.

_The elves of the alienage never had a moment’s respite. They never held a happy smile. Behind the upturned, toothy grins were broken hearts, proven fears, and haunted pasts. They were blamed for causing their own situation, turning a blind eye to the humans who were the true culprits. I tried to stay to give them the potions and salves they needed so desperately…_

“The walls a wringing coffin, crushing and compressing, all beige and brown; not a blade of grass in sight. Hatred held by humans and a single silver coin to spare. I cannot help them all.”

Cole and his soft voice appears at my side, out of view from anyone (namely Solas) who might happen to glance over the stairwell’s entrance. I turn my head, looking up and into his eyes.

“There were so many… and I abandoned them.” I confess to him, barely a whisper.

“You helped them. They understand why you left.”

I say nothing in return to him, instead peeking around the archway to see if anyone is inside.

Standing by his desk with hands nobly behind his back, Solas attentively listens to what a dwarven woman with warm, freckled skin over pretty, rounded features and golden waves pulled back into a messy ponytail, has to say. It catches me off guard, to see Solas _not_ by himself. I had come to the conclusion that he would always be the solitary occupant of this room.

What’s a little more strange, is that I can’t hear anything being said.

Not that I’m actively trying to eavesdrop or anything… it’s a peculiar observation, nothing more.

I watch the dwarf’s mouth move, clearly talking about something, and yet the only sounds that find their way to my sensitive elven ears are from the library above. I look over at Cole, who gives nothing resembling an answer to the question he already knows. I _do_ have an idea, though.

I inch a hand closer to the archway and magic reaches through my fingertips, tentatively searching for any other magics at work here. When I come upon it, it feels like a silky curtain of water that has been drawn over the entrance, invisible to all and felt only by those who can sense magic.

So it seems this room has been warded from sounds reaching unwanted ears.

I pull my hand back to my side and risk another glance at the conversing pair, just as the dwarf holds out a hand for Solas to examine. Something bright and green flashes from her palm, a spark of the Fade that marks her as the presumed Herald of Andraste—the Inquisition’s leader.

Fenedhis.

Before my curiosity could keep me watching for any longer, I tear away from the scene and sit myself down on the final step of the stairs, knees drawn up close to my chest, hoping to the Creators that I was never noticed. The embellished rumors I have heard had painted the image in my mind that the Inquisitor would be… very different than how she truly appears. My assumptions led to the expectations of her being a fierce warrior, taller and stronger than even the largest human man, or a qunari with adorned horns and a weapon twice the size of the dwarf she apparently embodies.

Crap.

“I guess I’m stuck here, huh.” I murmur to Cole. I’m in no position to intrude on whatever private conversation is happening between Solas and the frigging _Inquisitor_ of the frigging _Inquisition_ , nor could I stand another encounter with Dorian on the way to the other option regarding stairwells.

“It hurts; aching, itching fire, stinging tendrils spiraling up. She thinks her arm might fall off.” Says Cole. “She worries her worries make her weak in their eyes.”

Cole then sits in silence with me, content to keep me company while I wait out an awkward situation. I thought there would be other, more important things that a spirit of compassion would prefer to be doing in a keep full of disquieted souls. Not to say I don’t appreciate it, merely that my problems are not nearly as distressing.

~

The Iron Bull recognized the potential severity of the situation, but he could not help but feel as if he just tossed her to a pack of wolves. The poor thing shakes even when talking to her friends, and the spymaster is hardly that friendly of a face during investigations… but a talented bard like Leliana would no doubt know how to go about the situation without giving the elf a heart attack.

As he hangs out with his boys in the tavern that afternoon, he wonders what it is that makes her so nervous; what sort of thing, or things, that make her seem so scared. Of course, there is always an odd ball that comes around once in a while that turns out to be entirely harmless, except this time The Iron Bull thinks that is not entirely the case. His mind muses the possibilities of a past with slavery, an abusive family or relationship, and possibilities of an ongoing conflict with an unknown group, or with something damning she intends to hide from everyone else.

Whatever it is, Leliana will most certainly discern it and take the appropriate measures. There is no use in getting worked up over a hunch.

A serving girl with flaming red hair comes by with the Chargers’ next round of drinks, making sure to give The Iron Bull a seductive glance on the way and sway her hips just a little bit more than usual. He almost chuckles.

_Always the fucking redheads_ , he ponders to himself with a long, contemplative sigh. Krem gives him a knowing look.

“I think she likes you, Chief.” He punches the qunari playfully in the shoulder.

“Oh really? Didn’t notice.” The Iron Bull quips, staring at her backside as she meanders betwixt the other tables. He remembers how last night, he enjoyed the company of a different redheaded girl, an elf _(what was her name… Sessa?)_ , as they drank copious amounts of alcohol and lost money playing Wicked Grace. They did not do anything besides that and talk, considering how she was comically plastered by her fourth mug of ale—The Iron Bull is not one to take advantage of those circumstances.

He turns his attention back to his mercenary band; his weird, hodgepodge family featuring elven ‘archers’, ‘Vints, and maybe a forgotten king or two. A joke is told and laughter bellows out from everyone as he thinks that there is nowhere else he would sooner be.

~

Several minutes pass, and not once had I built up the courage to see if the Inquisitor is still in the room. Cole sits on the floor and I on the step, wordlessly.

I’m just happy no one else had decided to come this way… so far. If someone does, an unpleasant explanation would be necessary. What could I even say? ‘Sorry, I’m waiting for the Inquisitor to finish her conversation’? Or ‘apologies, messere, I did not want to disturb them’?

Before another practiced phrase comes to mind, Cole breaks the silence I had been thoroughly enjoying.

“She’s gone now.” He softly announces without looking. I discreetly check for myself and sure enough, Solas is absent of any company, circling around the desk to plop down in the high-backed chair. A quick brush of magic from my fingers tells me that the ward is gone as well.

Glancing back over to Cole reveals a space devoid of the spirit, gone without a trace. I prepare myself with a deep breath, and with silent steps my nimble feet pad across the room. It’s fortunate that Solas’s chair faces him away from my path, so the only clue to my wanderings is the creaking of the door as I open and shut it as soon as I pass through.

I spot Varric working through papers at the table by the great hall’s fireplace, who greets me with a “hey, Fidget” as I walk by. I nod a hello of my own, matching his friendly smile, and go outside to head to the mess hall.

The rain, it seems, has decided to return with the same force as earlier today; a steady drizzle of little droplets fall and collect in large puddles that I purposely walk through while everyone else scurries around them with makeshift coverings for heads caught unprepared. I hear one human in particular vehemently curse the skies for waterlogging his new boots. I hide my face from view when it makes me laugh, lest he redirect his anger onto me instead of a sky that can’t be physically fought with.

The mess is serving… something… today. When I sit down with my bowl, I take some time to examine the greyish, bisque-like substance before trying it. It’s not nearly as bad as it looks, but I still have no clue what it is.

Normally, eating something without knowing what it is, is a very bad idea. Looking around, I see the others eating it without so much as a second thought (or grimaced expressions), and eventually decide that it’s probably safe.

Or I’m being paranoid, which is probably a likelier story than someone serving tainted food to people belonging to Thedas’s last hope against an evil magister.

Scraping up the last remnants from the bowl into my mouth, I leave the mess and stop by the baths where I wash up without any unordinary occurrences—which I do rather hurriedly seeing how the sun is beginning to set. I’m determined to get back to my room before it falls too far.

…Am I really about to let one incident with a drunk man govern how late I stay out? I wait in the dry warmth of the bath house to contemplate making one or two more healing potion batches before I retire for the night, then ultimately resolving to lightly jog back to my room with my cloak held tightly around me to thwart the escalating storm.

It’s very dim and quiet when I close the door behind me; the only visible light comes from the sunset through the window, sending dark shadows cascading over the walls and furniture left unused by the people who aren’t here. I drop my pack to the floor and hang up my cloak, dripping rainwater onto the floor with no proper place to dry it. The best substitute I can make in place of a fireplace is to light the candles around the room that also brighten the space up with soft, warm glows. However, they are hardly any use for drying anything.

After braiding my hair off to the side and changing into sleeping clothes, I place my knife beneath my pillow and retrieve one of the books I stored under the bed. Varric’s story that I started reading yesterday was very interesting, so I pick that one (as opposed to the research tome on lyrium and flora) and set myself in a comfortable position on my bed. I still find it hard to believe that that dwarf is a writer…

The pages flip with the passing hour, and eventually I become too tired to resist the gentle tuggings of the Fade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have but 4 declarations:  
> -I can't decide if I'm happy with this chapter, but I know I'll just trap myself in a never-ending loop of editing if I don't move on  
> -I'm honestly baffled that I've kept writing this, and even more so that I actually want to keep doing it. It's... kind of therapeutic, in a way  
> -The Inquisitor was *this* close to being a qunari  
> -You guys have been super nice to me, and I really appreciate all of the comments and kudos :)


	7. A Proposition

Love and I watch from a distance as my memories of the day play before us; a performance where the spirits are actors, the Fade is the stage, and the lead role is in my image. Multiple times I have them repeat my encounter with the spymaster so I can see if I inadvertently gave too much information. Of which, I can’t seem to find anything that could suggest that I did.

But a spymaster would pick up on what I could not.

“Love… I’m worried about this.” I confess to the wispy spirit who drifts by my side. “If Leliana sent her people out to follow a trail I accidentally gave… what if someone gets hurt?”

“It would  _ not _ be because of you.” Asserts Love, knowing exactly where my thought process was headed towards.

“And if you’re wrong?”

Love titters, shaking her head. “Evvy, Evvy, Evvy… when have I  _ ever  _ led you astray?”

I think for a moment before answering. “Roughly three years ago you told me to buy a tiny cake from the market in Val Chevin. It was so, so, absolutely disgusting.” The Fade projects the memory of me retching into a back alley after trying the chocolatey-brown cake with bright blue frosting. Too late had I learned that the cake had fermented fish hidden in the frosting between the two cake layers, which were made from the bitterest chocolate I had ever tasted and embedded with bits of something vilely squishy… like partially melted cheese. The frosting was the single good thing about the cake, tasting like real, sugary icing without any unpleasant surprises.

Orlesians have the strangest tastes in food, rivaled only by their fashion.

I shudder from remembering the horrid taste. “That cake was the stuff of nightmares and deserved its fate.” The scene changed to show me chucking the once-bitten cake down the alley, which splattered against a wall before falling into a bin of trash below.

Love pouts and crosses her arms over her chest. “Firrrrrst of all, I didn’t tell you to eat it. Second, you should have read what it was before buying it. And third, I just wanted you to meet the vendor.” She then sighs dreamily. “She had such a kind soul…”

Oh… I guess that particular attempt to set me up with someone went far over my head. I remember being so nervous out in the middle of a crowded market square, that I could not get myself to even glance at anyone’s face while I ordered the most visually appealing cake for sale (that also fit within my meager price range).

“And this is why you should just  _ tell _ me what your plans are. Otherwise I might poison myself one day.” I say. Our surroundings change again, this time to the familiar spot of the magnificent tree on the small hill where twisting roots break out from the earth. Love follows me as I idly walk around the base, jumping over roots when the need arises.

“But that’s no fuuuuun!” The rosy spirit complains. “Where’s the adventure in  _ that _ ? Imagine strolling through the streets of some romantic city where the full moon casts light over the silver friezes, suddenly stumbling on a loose stone to be caught by the strong arms of a gentleman who smiles as he asks if you’re alright…” Love’s being becomes brighter and her eyes turn up in glee. “If I tell you beforehand, you’d expect it; you wouldn’t trip on the stone because you’d be looking out for it.”

I roll my eyes with a snort, pausing from my circular pacing. “You and I have very different ideas of what it means to have an adventure. And frankly, yours are ridiculous.”

“You know you loooove me!” She sings, using her slender arms to hang from my neck and look up at me adoringly—her playful version of a hug that tickles like magic at every point where our forms touch.

“I haven’t got much of a choice on that front, now do I?” I chuckle amidst the remark. Love glows and pushes off of me to launch herself into the air, spinning like a top before gently lowering back down to face me.

“Nope!” She giggles. I resume my wanderings around the tree with my most treasured friend: a spirit who never once despised me for reasons beyond my control. Who came to me so long ago when I needed her, regardless if I realized it at the time. Who I can trust unconditionally without consequences. I don’t know what I would do without her… I would be so lost.

-

I wake up just after dawn and, after unbraiding my hair to flow freely over my shoulder, quietly dress so as to not disturb my still-sleeping roommates. The same goes for when I stuff my knife into my pack, then silently close the door behind me to go grab a quick breakfast at the mess before either Agnes or Sessa shows up and insists I eat with them. I’m determined to perfect my iteration of an ice grenade today, and I don’t want anything delaying that. 

Leaving the mess, the grass is slick from yesterday’s rain and the dew reflects the golden colors of the rising sun. If I were alone, then I would have sprinted at full speed for a handful of seconds before stopping short to let my feet slide over the wet grass. It’s unfortunate that I can't indulge in the little moment of fun without looking like a child.

I get started on the day’s requests as soon as I reach the undercroft. The list is noticeably shorter, with only a few simple, common creations.

I’m going to miss working down here, (mostly) alone, and I’m not sure what the other apothecaries have in store for me when I start working wherever it is that they put me. Yes, it’s cold, damp, and a bit noisy with the waterfall and all, but I had enjoyed the relative calmness where I could work without losing too much concentration.

It takes a scant amount of time to finish and deliver the requests, and I start preparing grenades of the five successful versions several hours before noon. I make some extras with slight variations, including a tweak or two with the rune I place on the frostrock and a tiny change in the solution, just to see if something favorable happens.

With the grenades in my pack, I venture out to the training yards which… are full of people.

Because  _ of course _ they are.

My steps slow for a chance to survey the area. People who look to be soldiers running training exercises against dummies and each other in sparring rings make up the bulk of the herd, and a few others who don’t look to be of a specific group do the same, except solo. I heavily consider going back to the undercroft—drawing attention to myself is not something I necessarily enjoy doing—but I had told Varric I could get this done in a few days.

And the Inquisitor’s interest has been caught by my concept, no less. She should not have to wait on me whenever I feel nervous.

Deep breaths. I can do this.

My strides become intent, making way with imaginary bravery to a dummy left unused near the edges of the yard. I’m closer than I would prefer to the training people, though I have very few options regarding targets to hurl explosives at.

I set myself up and whisper a silent urging to Andruil that my aim stays true; I can’t let anyone get hurt from any miscalculated throws. That would surely be reason enough to kick me out.

With the first grenade in hand, I let it fly towards the dummy’s chest, and with a sudden  _ poof _ the ice spreads out in jagged sprouts. Not wanting to see if I caused anyone to draw their gazes to me, I write down my results with my eyes glued to the paper.

I grab the next grenade and pitch it. Once again, I focus only on the task at hand, taking note of the icy tendrils that climb up the dummy’s torso to form a hardened cage.

So far, so good. I keep up that pattern through the next couple grenades, pausing after the latest to remove most of the ice that has encased the dummy with my knife and a little bit of fire magic. With stronger grenades, the fewer I will be able to test before I run out of space to do so.

I lob the next grenade at its head, and the next at its shoulder. The rune fails on both, which is a telltale sign that the tweaks I made to them earlier simply ruined the spell, and that any grenade with that particular variant would fail as well. I write it down before cleaning up the mess so I won’t forget.

As I fish through my pack for the next one, though, I notice that something has changed. There are less clashings of metal and shoutings of instructions than there had been when I first arrived.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I’m most certainly being watched.

My curiosity overrules my better judgement, and I look around the yard to see nearby people halting their training to stare at me with intrigue. I immediately avert my eyes back to the grenade in my hand and my target, trying to ignore them as best as I can.

The last three grenades crash into the dummy one by one as bursts of ice, and at last I have a clear victor of the best recipe for a grenade of this kind. The most effective out of all contenders had an explosion of sharply serrated expanses of ice that solidified around the majority of dummy, and held fast against my efforts to break or crack it.

“I… did I… that’s  _ exactly _ what I wanted it to do!” I giggle to myself, unable to contain the excitement (thankfully, I  _ do _ have half a mind to keep myself from jumping up and down like an idiot). I have been working with this project on and off for a  _ year _ and I finally figured it out! I rush back to my pack where I left my notes and circle the recipe of the  _ perfect _ ice grenade.

“Dear me, what has the poor dummy  _ done  _ to you to deserve such treatment?” Asks an amused, fruity voice from somewhere behind me. Presumably belonging to one of the soldiers or guards whose attention I happened to captivate as they trained.

I snort and work to stow the papers into my pack, not looking up to see who they are.

“Despite lacking a mouth, he managed to besmirch my grandmother. I thought I should teach him a lesson.” I jest. Hoisting my pack over my shoulders, I stand fully to face the speaker—

Fenedhis.

Crap on a craphole covered in sodding nug crap… frigging…  _ shit _ .

I’m utterly frozen in place as the stupid grin on my face falls. As I stand before the Inquisitor in all her dwarven self, who just smiles at me with warm, chocolatey eyes, and who is accompanied by a human I recognize (Cassandra was her name, I think…).

“I don’t think we’ve met.” The Inquisitor inclines her head. “Malika Cadash. Or Inquisitor, or… that other one.”

“Herald.” Chimes in Cassandra.

“That’s the one! I can’t keep the titles straight anymore; I swear, more appear by the day.”

I snap myself out of my petrified state to give her a low bow.

“My name is Evuna, your…” My voice wavers and I hesitate on what the correct honorific would be in this case. “…Inquisitorialness?”

The Inquisitor chuckles, catching me off guard while I hide my quavering hands in my cloak.

I shake my head at myself. “That… wasn’t right, was it? I apologize, I’m unused to addressing people of your… station.”

I’m probably acting like an absolute fool with so little respect for any authority that I can’t be bothered to learn the right way to address people of importance!

But the Inquisitor doesn’t seem to mind my ignorance. Her smile has yet to falter and I don’t really understand why.

“If that one strikes your fancy, then you’re welcome to use it. Most people stick with plain ‘Inquisitor’ these days, though.” Says the Inquisitor and a funny, displeased noise comes from Cassandra. “Anywho, that’s an impressive throwing arm you have. Was all this for that ice grenade I’ve heard about?”

I look down at my wiggling toes. “Yes, Inquisitor, I have just determined what I think is the best way to create a grenade that encases a target in ice… it’s been a thorn in my side for the better part of a year. And the success is partly due to the resources the Inquisition has access to, so I feel as though I must thank you.”

Am I rambling? I think I’m rambling…

“You don’t need to thank  _ me _ , though I’m glad our stocks proved useful to you.” She tells me. After a quiet pause, I risk glancing back at her face. Her head is tilted ever so slightly and her expression is thoughtful with eyes that penetrate deep into my very soul, searching for some sort of answer like her title suggests she would.

I look back down at my feet. I may be taller than the Inquisitor, but somehow I feel like the smallest person in the entire training yards.

“Walk with me?” She requests simply.

_ What _ .

Choking back my surprise, I clear my throat. “Of course… but what of the dummy? Should I clear it off first?”

“I can have someone take care of it.” The Inquisitor gestures for me to accompany her in a direction without an obvious destination, and Cassandra and I fall into step next to her.

The Inquisitor snorts at the human among the three of us. “You don’t have to follow me, Cass.” She says.

“Humor me.” Is all Cassandra says in return. The Inquisitor leads us a few paces from the training yards before speaking up again,

“So! You’re certainly quite the alchemist, if what I’ve been told is true. Adan mentioned a few days ago that the healers have been fighting over who gets to use the products made by  _ you _ rather than the other apothecary… but that’s beside the point. I could use someone with your extensive expertise.”

My toes curl into the dirt with every step as I become more nervous. I hate this. What have I done to end up  _ speaking _ with the Inquisitor? I only came to Skyhold to be safe, and  _ nothing _ about this strikes me that way.

“Leliana’s investigation—”

“An  _ ongoing _ investigation, mind you.” Cassandra cuts in, voice sharp and demanding to be heeded. I shrivel up a little inside.

However, the Inquisitor only laughs. “Yes, thank you, Cass. As I was saying, with our spymaster looking into you and all that, I can’t help but be impressed with what we’ve learned so far. The list you sent with Varric was very helpful—except words on paper do  _ no  _ justice to seeing or hearing about your works in action… I’ve seen grenades of ice before.  _ None _ of them compare to what you just pelted that dummy with.”

My face flushes a touch with embarrassment. “I… thank you.”

The embarrassment worsens with a cool breeze to brush over my ears, and I realize that my hood had fallen back at some point, leaving me to feel exposed and bare. I don’t pull it up again in fear that it would be considered rude somehow.

“If my Inner Circle had access to your works out in the field, it would give us advantages. A sharper edge, but one with deadly poisons on the blade.” The Inquisitor stops walking and angles towards me, earnest. “The point is, I need someone like you—an alchemist  _ savant _ —with us on our missions. Someone who can keep us stocked up with enough of those famous healing potions of yours to knock us off our asses and back into battle. Someone whose grenades can keep the enemy at bay better than anyone else’s.”

Eyes wide, I look at the Inquisitor’s face for any sign of a trick. A joke. A prank…  _ anything _ , and all I see is sincerity.

Nothing comes out when I open my mouth to reply, my mind drawing a blank on what I would even say to this.

“Ultimately, it’s  _ your _ decision to think about until Leliana concludes her investigation.” Adds Cassandra, obviously cautious of me.

“What would happen… if I agree?” I ask, apprehensive.

“I will not lie to you, your safety cannot be guaranteed. I would have you travel with us and stay at our camps where we keep some alchemical supplies, but even then, you may have to defend yourself every once in a while, which I know you  _ can  _ to some extent” Confesses the Inquisitor. “I, that is, we, only ask that you consider it.”

I twiddle my thumbs, thoughts swirling all around. If someone wants my help, then I will always want to help them if it’s within my capabilities and aligns with what I believe is righteous… and the Inquisitor is one of these people. I can help her  _ and _ this ‘Inner Circle’ of hers, and it baffles me that I  _ want _ to. The only thing that keeps me from agreeing now is knowing I would have to face the perils I sought to escape in the first place.

Eventually, I nod. “I’ll think about it, Inquisitor, although I fear you place too much confidence in me.”

“Don’t worry, my confidence is rarely misplaced.” The Inquisitor assures with a wide smile. “And I have a good feeling about you.”

-

Hands shaking, I lay them flat on the table and stare at the stone wall glistening with moisture from the waterfall.

Creators, I have really dug myself into a hole, haven’t I? One where I can’t dig myself out unless I choose between moral obligation and a sense of safety… with the latter of which becoming more dubious by the day. How soon would it be until the next person decides to get handsy with a ‘defenseless little rabbit’? How long until they stop trusting a knife-ear to make potions?

Even if these worries are absurd, they can’t exactly be ignored, lest they turn out to be true.

On the other side of things, the Inquisitor’s offer is… tempting, to say the least. I miss wandering around Thedas, stumbling upon forgotten places when I strayed from the paths and sleeping in trees to stay hidden from bandits prowling for a victim by the light of the moon and stars. I miss running through shallow streams and letting nugs gather at my feet as I fed them chunks of bread I swiped from a rich noble’s picnic.

And to have a chance to do some of those things again in exchange for my services in alchemy—would the potential sacrifices be worth it?

“You’ve been standing like that a while. Whatcha thinking about?” Dagna’s sudden voice startles me out of my contemplations. She looks up at me with a cheerful expression, as it always seems to be to some degree.

“Oh, hey, Dagna. It’s nothing; the Inquisitor just asked to consider travelling with her to keep her group supplied with my works.” I explain to her, dropping my hands to my sides to fumble with the edges of my cloak.

Dagna lights up. “Wow, really?! You’re gonna say yes, right? You  _ gotta _ say yes!”

“I’m… not sure yet.”

“Why?” She asks. “What’s keeping you?”

I sigh. “The thought of tossing myself back into the dangers I wanted to get away from, failing to meet the Inquisitor’s lofty expectations of me, giving her a faulty grenade by accident…”

_ …not being able to resist the wanderlust, crossing paths with what I left behind, being a hindrance, death… _

Dagna hums in thought as I trail off into silence.

“Listen, ‘Vuna. I get that you’re super nervous about this, but stop focusing on the ‘what if’s' for a second and ask yourself if you  _ want _ to do this. That should matter the most, right?”

“Yes… I think I  _ do _ want this.” I admit, then shrug. “I just don’t know if I  _ should _ .”

“Looks to me like you already have your answer, but I’m not about to tell you what to do. You’ll figure out what’s best for you, I know you will!” She consoles with a brief touch on my forearm.

“Thanks, Dagna.” I say softly. She walks away with a smile and I turn to start making healing potions, poultices, and salves to take my mind off of literally everything else that doesn’t involve copious amounts of elfroot to be chopped, boiled, or ground into a fine paste.

I go on like that through lunch time, hands far too busy to notice whether I’m hungry or not. The efficiency I was able to achieve from my unyielding concentration allowed me to fill a large crate to the brim. The healers will be happy when it gets delivered to them, without a doubt.

Satisfied with my work, my stomach growls to let me know I should probably get something to eat now. I first clean up any messes around my station before finding myself ambling towards the mess hall. I have no reason to rush the walk through the courtyards, as the sun has yet to even kiss the tops of Skyhold’s walls.

“MOVE IT!” A cackling blur of red and yellow pushes past me, and I twist out of the way to see the blonde figure running like the wind. It’s fortunate that I think to look back at the direction they came from, because otherwise I might have been mowed down by a red-faced and heaving man before I could move aside his path. He chases the figure—who is  _ much  _ faster than he is—with shoes in either hand rather than on his bare feet.

I… don’t know if I want to know what that was about.

It was pretty funny, though.

I make it to the mess without any further excitement and eat a stew that is one of the farthest things from exciting. I might even say it tastes of tedium, if I were anything like those food importers I often overheard in Orlais and Antiva. Tedium, with an aftertaste of apathy. If the cooks ever forgo adding the carrots, then maybe I could raise it to indifference.

When I’m about to stand from the table, someone plunks themselves on the empty seat beside me. 

“I’m not here, yeah?” She says with an accent that marks her as Fereldan. I glance at her to see pointed ears, short, blonde hair, and the red and yellow outfit that gives her away as being the person who ran passed me not twenty minutes ago.

An exasperated man then barrels through the doors, drawing eyes from everywhere in the hall as he searches for something (or someone) in the crowds, hands still grasping his shoes.

“I know you’re in here, elf!” He hollers. I hear the elf next to me—the elf in question—snicker into her hand, barely containing her laughter. If she’s on the run from this man, she should probably make a better effort to be quiet.

I gently elbow her in the arm. “Shh, he’ll notice you.” I whisper without looking at her.

“That’s the fun part, innit?” She murmurs amidst a stifled snort. From underneath my hood, I watch the man walk around the hall, gesticulating wildly with his shoes as he demands for the location of the culprit for some unspecified cime. After a moment, he reaches the opposite side of the large room and I lose sight of him.

The elven woman erupts with laughter. “Friggin’ nobles and their stupid fancy shoes. Stuff in some butter that’s a tad blue and that’ll teach ‘em to be arseholes.”

She… what?

“You… put moldy butter in his shoes?” I ask, mostly to check if I heard her correctly.

“Would’ve gone with old fruit so his toes’d get all juicy, but the kitchen threw them all out before I could snag a single peach.” She laments.

“Um, why?”

“Why not? Guy was a right jerk to people—deserved a prank or two. An’ thanks for not rattin’ me out.” The elf winks and dashes out of the mess hall, leaving the man holding his butter-filled shoes to maintain his futile search.

Skyhold continues to surprise me in the strangest of ways.

I take my leave of the hall as soon as my brain processes the most recent of strange events and stick to my new-found schedule of stopping by the baths after an evening meal. I work away the dirt collected on the bottoms of my feet and unknot the stubborn tangles of my hair (which may or may not have been caused by accidentally getting sticky elfroot juices in it) until I feel refreshed from the day.

But I stay in the bath for longer than necessary; I don’t want to go to my enclosing room just yet. It’s scarcely sunset and normally, when I end up with some free time before feeling tired, I would explore my surroundings or read a book. With one of those options requiring me to fetch a book from under my bed in the aforementioned room, I opt for the former and get dressed in my favorite corner of the bathhouse (the corner most often left unused by the other bathers) prior to setting out in a random direction.

-

I don’t mind getting lost this time, especially since it was partially on purpose. I had only seen a few select places in Skyhold, and I’m curious about what else there is to see as long as no one discerns my aimless wanderings as suspicious.

From the bathhouse, I meandered through a large courtyard and after walking along a wall, went up a set of stairs that led to one of the many ramparts (I see average-looking people go up them everyday, so I thought: ‘why can’t I?’). None of the stationed guards or passersby had shot rude looks or remarks my way, so I kept on going without a second mind to go back from whence I came.

From the ramparts, I found another staircase that brought me down into a yard with colorful flora of differing species, which is when I knew that I had, at last, discovered the location of these gardens I have been hearing so much about.

It’s where I am now, even though I’m not exactly sure  _ where _ I am in relation to Skyhold as a whole. I look all around at the trees of oranges and reds, the bushes of blooming flowers and clover cushioning the ground below my feet, the vines climbing up the walls… and the beds of herbs, sorted by the plants that live in them. They are merely sprouts at present, but it takes no effort on my part to identify which beds are reserved for which herb. Elfroot, crystal grace, spindleweed, prophet’s laurel… any and all plants an alchemist needs to make a high-quality product.

I only wish the trees were bigger; these scant little things are hardly climbable compared to the gigantic oaks I used to scale on the regular.

Cole appears in a blink of an eye, leaning against the tree and staring down at his feet that sweep lightly over the clover and grass.

“Bough by bough, branch by branch, gripping the bark to breach the towering top. The trees thought you were a very large squirrel.” He says simply.

I giggle. “Of course they did. I’m not very spider or frog-like, so what else could I be besides a squirrel?”

The spirit is silent for a moment.

“Wait, you don’t  _ actually _ have to answer that; it was a rhetorical question.”

“Oh.”

I smile thinly and turn away to proceed with perusing the gardens. However unkempt this space was before, it’s obviously been significantly improved. It’s very beautiful.

I crouch down to examine a dawn lotus flower—the first one to bloom of its neighbors. I’m surprised they managed to get some of these plants to grow here, especially the ones native to swamps or deserts.

“Perilous, precarious, problems in both parts. Need to choose, which side is better? She says she needs someone like me but what if I’m not enough?” Cole appears again, this time next to me and sitting on the ground. “Can’t fail others—if I fail myself, it’s fine. Them? No, not an option.”

I keep my eyes glued to the lotus. “No one else should suffer from  _ my _ mistakes.” I stress, voice low to prevent any other strollers of the garden from hearing. I have no way of knowing for sure if Cole is causing our conversation to go unnoticed, so I take some measures of my own just to be safe.

“They won’t, not if you believe it.” He states, then disappears soon thereafter, leaving me to mull it over by the company of the dawn lotus.

_ They won’t suffer from my mistakes if I believe that they won’t _ … so Cole is telling me that if I have faith in my skills, no one will get hurt because of them? It seems like a very simple and easy answer, but I don’t think I can do that… I have no faith in my ability to have faith in  _ myself _ , which I  _ do _ accept as a major piece of the trouble Cole diagnosed.

I just… don’t know how.

And Dagna…

She said whether or not I want to help the Inquisitor should be the most important thing to consider—to the Void if I turn out to be a burden, not if my contentment is at stake. It would be a lie to say I agree with her. And it would also be a lie to proclaim the Inquisitor’s proposition as unappealing.

Evidently, I’m getting nowhere with this on my own. I need Love’s guidance to tie together the advice I received and the uneasiness constantly scratching in the back of my mind.

I stand and search around the gardens for a sort of exit, picking a door at random that miraculously leads to the great hall and that in turn, significantly lowers the chances of getting lost again. I don’t have to guess at which route would take me to my room.

In due time, I end up there and change into sleeping clothes with hair braided in its typical nightly fashion. Me not being tired yet matters little when I open my mind to the Fade—all I need to do is relax and focus on that goal, and I can achieve it just as easily as if I were exhausted.

-

Love is waiting for me in our tree, hanging among the thick branches that I promptly climb up so we can meet on a similar level as one another. Her rosy face, a bright contrast amid the deep green leaves around her, gazes back at me all smiley and wordless in anticipation, waiting for me to speak first because she can already tell that I have a question.

“The Inquisitor wants me to help her and her… friends? Is that who they are to her? I don’t know, but that’s unimportant.” I begin, frantic from finally being in a place where I can let myself fully open up. Where the stopper on the bottle can pop at last. “She wants me to make healing supplies, grenades, poisons… probably anything and everything I can make, while she goes about her missions in… I don’t know, anywhere of everywhere? She, I guess, thinks I’m the best one for that kind of responsibility, even though I’m pretty sure there’s someone out there who can be of better help, someone ‘like me’ who she can find who is  _ not _ me, but  _ why _ me? The Inquisitor should find someone else—I can’t ask her to do that, she seems to want me specifically and now I feel like I  _ must _ help and I honestly kind of  _ want _ to but I came here to get away from the world, so it shouldn’t be a good idea to go  _ back _ , unless it is? But how could I know that unless I—”

“Lethallan…” Love tenderly interrupts and I become silent. “Fear lurks around us, waiting on the edges for a crack to open up. Please, be calm. I would not see you as an abomination.”

I nod, and take several deep breaths to slow my rapidly beating heart and steady my shaking hands. I pay attention only to the warm, loving spirit before me, and not to the cold, creeping sensations of a fear demon actively searching for something of mine to latch on to.

Long, reticent moments pass, and the demons are no longer on the brink of our sanctuary. They most likely detected a fear from elsewhere and went to seek it out.

And all that remains is guilt, pooling in my gut. I had forgotten to be careful here and thus endangered us both.

“I… I’m sorry.” I mumble into my hands that move to cover my face.

“It’s alright.  _ You _ will be alright.” Love affirms me in her soft, lyrical voice.

I look up at her, meeting glowing eyes radiating with affection. “What should I do?” I ask, pleading.

“A bird will never learn to fly if she never jumps.”

That earns a slight snort from me. First I’m a squirrel, and now I’m a bird… perhaps I will be a goat next.

“So you’re saying I should agree?”

The spirit flows down from the overhead branches to perch directly in front of me, each leaf glowing faintly pink as she passes by them. “While walls will away ill-will from the world, with you within them, your aid is wasted.” She explains in the cryptic tone reminiscent of Wisdom rather than Love. “Your happiness in Skyhold is temporary. Soon it will all feel too much; confining without the comfort of the familiar. And your help is much appreciated by those who have asked for it so far, but the one called the Inquisitor has come too close to death with nothing save for mediocre potions to keep her alive, too many times. You can rectify this.”

I say nothing, only nodding in acknowledgment.

“Evvy, it’s scary, I know, but take the leap. You need to spread your wings and feel the air that lets you flyyyyy!” Love croons, grinning broadly. She swiftly rises with a hand held out for me to take. I do, and she pulls me upwards as the Fade transforms from the tree to a bright blue sky with fluffy clouds every which way and with us floating along them. “Maybe you’ll find an adventure that takes you  _ soaring _ !”

Love’s figure brightens, even more so at the center of her chest, and her grin shifts to a mischievous one. “And mayyyyybe one of those adventures will lead you to the one who holds the soul complimentary to your own. To the one who will cherish you as you cherish them. To your heart and home, your  _ vhenan _ .”

I groan. “And here I thought we could get away from the whole ‘love’ thing for a day…”

She chortles. “Ohhhhh, but the world would be so  _ sad _ without looooove!”

“You are impossible.” I declare, the corners of my mouth curving up to a legitimate smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have but three declarations:  
> -I know it's been a pretty slow start so far, but I promise things will get more interesting... eventually (hopefully).  
> -I wonder of nugs ever get cold, since they don't have fur... do people who keep them as pets in colder climates have to give them sweaters to wear?  
> -Thank you guys for leaving kudos, they really make my day! :)


	8. Wicked Grace and Graceless Wit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Between writing a shorter chapter ripe with pacing issues or writing a longer one without, I chose the latter :)

They travelled as a pack of three through the Dales. It was a good number, small enough to not attract unwanted attention, but large enough so none of them would end up alone should one perish.

Among the trio was a lanky fellow with Orlesian roots who went by the name of Césaire, an elf called Piron who hailed from the Verchiel alienage, and a severe, human woman with the kind of experience one could only obtain through age named Marietta. They were all stationed in the same town in southeastern Orlais, so when Leliana’s raven arrived with orders for the three scouts, it took no time at all to prepare and head out.

The spymaster’s instructions had been somewhat vague: scout the Dales for signs of a particular elf with this particular appearance and this particular name—which had no surname to follow—and whose only known origins were in this particular region. There were some other, disjointed details as well that were of little help in finding a definite trace.

It was late into the night when the group decided to take a few hours’ rest around a small fire that casted long, eerie shadows against those intimidating trees of the Emerald Graves; the outline of a stone statue depicting a wolf could be seen some paces away.

“It always amazes me how large these trees can grow.” Piron sighed, gazing upwards as he leaned back onto his hands. “And to think that they only get bigger the farther we go? It’s breathtaking.”

Without uncovering any hard evidence thus far, the group had turned to inklings and pure speculations in the hopes of finding some sort of lead. Unfortunately, the tactic had only succeeded in leading them ever deeper into the forest.

Césaire, who entertained himself by poking the fire with a stick, scoffed. “You elves and your trees…”

“Could say the same thing about you humans and your tall buildings.”

“At least it is _civilization_.”

“Shut it, both of you.” Marietta demanded with the same stern voice she used on misbehaving children. “We should get some sleep; Piron, you’re on first watch, Césaire second, I’ll take last.”

The two men obeyed without any further rude remarks (although Césaire grumbled something in Orlesian under his breath) and moseyed to their respective places: Césaire to his bedroll, and Piron to fix himself by a nearby tree with a bow in hand. Marietta stayed awake for a little while longer, partly because she wanted to make sure Césaire would not start any more quarrels, and partly because something about the shadows and the static darkness made her restless.

She _did_ fall asleep eventually, shaking off the feeling as a remnant of her childhood when she was terrified of the dark.

Piron looked out into the darkness for any sort of movement, listening for sounds other than that of a harmless animal. He knew Marietta assigned him this watch, when it was to be the darkest, on account of his elven eyes and ears that gave him superior night vision and sharper hearing. With it being just after midnight, the sunset has since passed and dawn was a long way off.

Something caught his eye, but vanished before he could tell what it was besides a speck of a shadow too silent and small to be an August ram. He notched an arrow in his bow, and slowly wandered closer to the statue where the sight originated. The watchful wolf’s features came into view, vigilant and proud with soft eyes, vines and moss clinging to its body as the earth below endeavors to reclaim the stone. Piron rounded the corner of the beast’s pedestal to see if anything was hiding there, waiting in the dark to attack seemingly unsuspecting victims.

Preoccupied with the statue before him, he failed to pay attention to his steps.

His foot landed on a twig. It snapped—a deafening sound amid the silence.

And Piron died without a chance to see what killed him.

Marietta woke up in time for her shift at watch, despite no one waking her—a talent, learned from her many years of working with Leliana. Her eyes drifted to Césaire’s sleeping form and she became furious, roughly shaking him awake.

“Wha-what is it?” Césaire sputtered as his mind shook off the sleep.

“Why aren’t you watching?!” She hissed.

He scratched his bearded chin, confused. “I… did Piron not come to wake me?”

Marietta stood, first looking at Piron’s empty bedroll, then lighting a small, handheld lantern when there were no ostensible signs of the elf’s whereabouts.

“Get up,” She whispered harshly, “something’s wrong here.”

The two humans, armed with a shortsword each, searched the perimeter of their camp until Césaire pointed out a patch of lightly trampled grass. A footprint.

They followed the meager trail by what light the lantern and the oncoming sunrise provided, and it took them to one of the wolf statues the group had encountered almost everywhere during the entire mission. However, this statue had a figure leaning against it by their shoulder, slumped and unmoving.

Marietta held out the lantern, illuminating Piron’s back.

“Piron? Did you fall asleep on watch again?” Césaire asked, a fearful tone that he tried to cover up by sounding irritated instead. Marietta stayed where she was as Césaire approached Piron and touched his upper back, which earned him no response. He then tried to pull him closer to the lantern light when it appeared that Marietta was determined to stay at her spot.

With Piron’s back now supported by the statue, his head was free to loll towards the light, revealing a long, feathered shaft of an arrow that pierced deep into one temple and through to the opposite side where a thin, serrated tip emerged. Deep, crimson blood was still languidly dripping from either side and down the statue, hidden by the darkness at first, but obvious now.

Unable to look away from Piron’s lifeless blue eyes, Césaire gasped, taking in the metallic smell and taste he was suddenly hyper aware of. He tore himself away and looked back at Marietta, whose eyes were wide and mouth agape.

“Let’s…” She began, then swallowed the thick lump forming in her throat. “We should take him back to camp. Assess what we can.”

Césaire nodded wordlessly and went around to pick up the body from a better angle, having to step past where the pedestal ends. Marietta repositioned the lantern to try and give him more light, but it no longer mattered because as soon as she did, an arrow tip surfaced from his left eye.

He crumpled to the ground face first, dead, the familiarly-feathered arrow protruding from the back of his skull.

Marietta stood frozen in place, disbelieving what her eyes were seeing; two bodies, one propped up by the statue and the other at the former’s feet, both alive and bickering mere hours ago.

She gradually backed away and ignored the guilt she felt from leaving them behind. This was assuredly an ambush spot, and she did not want to become the next target while _someone_ still needed to inform the spymaster about this disaster.

Marietta dismantled the camp and began travelling to the nearest Inquisition post as quickly as she could, her increasing exhaustion be damned.

~

From the very second I woke up this morning, I had been internally rehearsing my words so that it might sound like a well thought out decision. I contemplated possible greetings as I fervently brushed out my hair, debating between formal or cordial approaches. Over breakfast I thought about how my body language should go, and I decided that it would be best if I kept it to a minimum, but not so much as to appear stiff. On the walk from the mess hall, I had ruminated on the very best way to phrase each sentence so I don’t start rambling nonsense.

Now, with a plan refined and polished to the point where it shines, I march up the stairs to the great hall before I can convince myself to turn back, keeping an eye out for a certain dwarf with light, gingery hair.

I'm really doing this.

I pass through the doors and look over to the right at the fireplace where I usually see Varric, and, as if fate enjoys mocking me, he’s there, writing something at the table. My hopes that he would either be somewhere else or busy with another person are thoroughly dashed, as are any excuses I have to stall.

I approach him, prepared to speak and—nope, nevermind. I hesitate and walk past him instead, and he’s so engrossed in his current activity that he doesn’t notice me.

I pause at a wall with relatively few people nearby and give myself a mental kick for being such a coward. Why bother deliberating a plan if I knew, deep down, that I wasn’t going to go through with it? Maybe I just wanted to try and convince myself that I could, making me feel like I have this under control even though it’s a blatant lie.

Wait, come _on_ now. Just walk up to the nice dwarf and _do it_!

I steel myself and start heading back to Varric, who happens to glance up in time to see me.

Well… at least I won’t be able to back out of it again.

“Why hello, Fidget.” He greets, chipper. “What can I do for you?”

“U-um, hello, Ser Varric. Could I speak to you for a minute? If you’re not busy, that is.” I ask, fidgeting hands hidden behind my back as I briefly look askance at his pile of papers.

“Oh, this? I’m just plotting the death of a fictional character—it’s not important.” He dismisses it with a waving gesture.

Right, he’s an author. Good thing I remembered, otherwise I would be a tad concerned.

I smile, mostly out of courtesy. “Alright, I was wondering if you could perhaps let the Inquisitor know that I’ll accept her offer? Since I don’t exactly know how to go about it myself… and I apologize if I’m asking the wrong person for this.” My well-practiced words come out with the barest wavering of my voice. I can’t bring myself to be proud of this tiny accomplishment, though. Not while a fear trickles in from the back of my mind that Varric’s friendly facade would finally give way to reveal a man who despises being asked favors of, in the form of angry, verbal chastisement.

I hold my breath and look down at the ground, awaiting the inevitable.

“Sure thing. The Inquisitor'll definitely be happy.” He unexpectedly accedes. I have to look up at his face to double check his kindly candor.

Ah. I was being overly presumptive again, wasn’t I? I have _got_ to stop doing that…

Varric continues with a slight chuckle, eyes crinkling: “I’ll pass it on as soon as she’s done being held hostage by the advisors.”

I laugh shyly, more so out of relief that this _thing_ that was gnawing at me all of yesterday has finally come to a comparatively uncomplicated resolution. Varric’s name removes itself from my imaginary boxes and is placed aside in the same space as Solas's, since all of my predictions of his nature have been proven wrong so far. However, it’s not enough to justify giving them both a box of their own. Maybe Cole is right, that all I need to do is change the labels so the names fit better? I will consider it later.

“Thank you, ser, I really appreciate it.” I express with a bow of my head. I shift on my feet to start walking away, but he speaks up once more.

“Hey, do you play Wicked Grace?” He inquires, and my brows furrow somewhat in confusion at the oddly-casual question.

“No,” I reply, “I never learned, either.”

_Because I never had anyone to play with._

Varric’s smile broadens in a way that makes me nervous. “It’s never too late to learn; we’re having a game at the Herald’s Rest later, if you’re interested at all.”

“That’s… the tavern, right?”

He nods, and I balance on one leg to awkwardly scratch at my ankle with my other foot. I’m not overly fond of the image of me being trapped in a tavern full of people I don’t know, especially not when they would most likely be drinking alcohol… but I _have_ always wanted to learn Wicked Grace…

“I might be. I’ll, erm, think about it.”

“No pressure, though, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” He adds. He holds up his palms, fingers outstretched, to show that he means no harm.

And I believe it.

I bow my head again, this time with a small smile and a quiet statement of gratitude. I turn away and soon end up in the undercroft where Dagna accosts me not five paces from the door.

“‘Vuna, great! I need your help with something!” She grabs my wrist, completely enclosing the bony joint with overlapping fingers, and starts pulling me towards her station. I stumble at first, having to quickly regain my footing to match her eager gait.

_Fingers locked around my wrist, she dragged me to the river bend. She kicked in my knees and I fell to them as she pushed my head under the rushing water and held it there. It was only to teach me a lesson, not to drown me, so she allowed gasping breaths just so I would stay alive._

Dagna’s grip is nowhere near as tight, but the feeling that prompts such memories is still there. When she releases me, I rub it away with my other hand and direct my attention to one of the many dwarves I so often find myself in the company of.

“You’ve got some magic, right?” She asks, digging for something in a pile of… somethings.

“If you emphasize ‘some’, then yes.” I warily confirm. “What’s this abou—”

“Hold this!” Dagna shoves a strange, flat disk of metal into my hands, rendering me silent. I examine it from different angles so I might figure out what it is; from what I can tell, it’s simply a round sheet of greyish metal devoid of any markings.

“Okay, now use some magic on it.” She commands jovially.

I tilt my head to the side. “Uh… could you perhaps be more specific?”

Dagna shrugs. “I dunno. Throw a fireball at it?”

I ignore the suggestion entirely. Even if that was something I _could_ do, it would not exactly be the best plan to throw a ball of fire in a room full of precious equipment. Rather, I lay a hand flush against the object as it becomes colder from the ice that materializes from my skin.

I remove my hand to see the ice on the metal immediately dissipate, undeterred by the freezing temperature.

I meet Dagna’s giddy eyes in interest. “What is this?”

“It’s a magic resistance enchantment for armor and stuff. Didn’t know if it would work since it’s kinda new so I put it on some scrap and you did the rest!”

Curious, I create flames that flicker over my fingers and lick the metal, leaving black marks in its wake. When I pull my hand away, the scorch marks fade to nonexistence.

“Dagna, this is amazing!” I praise.

“Oh, it’s not _that_ special,” insists the dwarf, “but I could use your help some more!”

Through the next hour, Dagna has me cast easy elemental spells on different types of metal with the same enchantment in the event it turns out to be dependent on the material type. It’s not and the effect is identical to the first one every time, but my fascination never lessens.

Afterwards, Dagna thanks me for my assistance and I cross the floor to my own station where I retrieve the day’s request list from the drawer and scan it. It’s typical at first, until I read the bottom name.

Dorian, for whatever reason, requires ten lyrium potions.

What does he even _do_ with these if he goes through several over the span of a few days? I know it’s none of my business and I have no right to ask him about it, I just wonder what a man who spends the majority of his time—from what I have seen—complaining about the library’s selection, does with that much lyrium in a concentrated, drinkable form.

I’m about as experienced with Tevinter culture as an insect is at speaking Antivan, so for all I know, they like to sample the stuff like wine. I don’t know why they would, though… that seems pretty gross, not to mention unhealthy.

I make the other requests first and hand them off to the corresponding people. It’s all very dull and straightforward, except for when I go to drop off a collection of burn salves to the healing tents. There, I ask for someone by a certain name and one healer comes up to me and claims to be said person. I hand off the salves as per usual, but then a different healer shows up behind them with his arms bitterly crossed. As it turns out, the first healer was lying about his identity in order to claim the product for himself so he would not have to use the, to use _his_ words, ‘subpar rubbish that doesn’t do shit’.

I’m pretty sure he was exaggerating; I doubt the Inquisition would hire incapable apothecaries.

I’m also sort of flattered. My face flushes during the entire plight and I have to pull my hood a little farther forward to obscure it.

Nonetheless, the salves find their way to the rightful owner, and I head back to the undercroft to start on the potions that will hopefully satisfy Dorian’s worrying addiction. Dagna, as always, is happy to lend a hand with them and in fact, has gotten so proficient at properly applying the lyrium that I no longer feel the need to monitor her every move.

I _do_ still keep an eye on her, of course. Just to allay my paranoia.

All ten lyrium potions get mixed up without a hitch, so I thank Dagna and venture up to the library using the closer set of stairs in fear of walking in on Solas while he was having another conversation intended to be private.

At the top of the boring, lackluster stairs, I spot Dorian lounging in that posh chair of his, one leg draped over the other, elbow resting on the chair’s arm so his head can be upheld by his hand. In his lap is a thick tome with weathered pages.

I softly clear my throat to announce my presence and he looks over to me; an irritably charming smile graces his lips.

“Hello, Ser Dorian. I have those lyrium potions for you.” I tell him as I gently lower my pack to the ground in the alcove and begin pulling out the intensely blue bottles, placing them on the carpet by the chair.

He marks his place in the tome before dramatically snapping it closed. “Wonderful! My dear, you are _indispensable_!”

I snort. “I beg to differ, with all due respect.”

“‘With all due respect’?” Echoes Dorian followed by a bark of laughter. “Tell me: are you just saying that to sound polite, or do you _actually_ respect me?”

My grasp tightens around the latest bottle to be dug out and I hesitate. His tone is teasing, nothing at all suggests that he’s fishing for an argument… I think… so I take a tiny risk.

“I would not count on either.” I deadpan, keeping my gaze at the task at hand to hide the playful smile I struggle to subdue.

“Oh!” Dorian brings the back of his hand to his forehead, feigning to be faint. “You wound me! How shall my pride ever recover?”

I pretend to hum in thought. “I thought it could benefit from a pruning. I hear humility is an attractive look, you know.”

“Then I suppose I’ll have to be content with dying alone.” He concedes.

With a short chuckle on my part, I place the last potion among its other siblings. “Alright, ser, that’s the last of them. I’ll be on my way.” I loop my arms through the straps of my pack and bow, then turn on my heel to leave as Dorian waves an inattentive sendoff.

I end up walking alongside the railings on the way to the stairs, discretely peering over them and down into the room below. I see Solas enraptured by an object on his desk—a sort of slab of stone—that emanates a hazy hue of pale blue. His head is angled in a scholarly way, undeniably pondering some line of questioning that I wish I could listen in on, and his long fingers are spread out against the table he pores over, lightly tapping with an index finger.

I should probably use the same staircase I did when coming up here; he looks preoccupied and I don’t want to interrupt.

I’m about to change routes when the sound of a door stops me. Varric saunters into the room, unconcerned of Solas’s concentration, and approaches him. Solas’s head snaps up once to acknowledge the dwarf, then back down at the odd object.

“Hey Chuckles, do you ever play Wicked Grace?” Varric asks.

So Varric and Solas know each other? Well, I should not be all too surprised. Varric has an air of friendliness that’s difficult to snub.

“I’m not much of a gambler anymore.” Replies Solas coolly.

Varric grins. “You don’t have to play for real coin, that’s just for keeping score.”

Solas looks at him again, a brow quirked with intrigue. “What do you play for?”

“Conversation mostly; that way I win no matter how the cards fall. I’m rounding up some people for a game tonight at the tavern, if you want to join in.”

“I appreciate the offer, Master Tethras, although I am not one for crowds.” Solas smoothly declines, then resumes his internal ponderings with the glowing object.

“Suit yourself. Don’t be afraid to change your mind.” Varric says, departing from the rotunda. The library is quiet now, with only the sounds of pages turning and the malcontent comments of a Tevinter.

During their exchange I ‘accidentally’ overheard, I was hoping Solas would agree to go because maybe then _I_ would be more comfortable with the idea of going. I have no clue on who’s all being invited to this get-together (honestly, I don’t even know why he wanted to invite _me_ ), which makes me a little nervous, but if some of those people are people that I feel somewhat relaxed around, then I think I would want to try this card game out.

Maybe… I could, I don’t know, ask Solas to go? Is that too weird? He declined it on the basis of not finding crowds enjoyable, which is very much the same for me as well, though perhaps I could…

No. It’s a stupid idea. He said he didn’t want to go, and it’s not my place to challenge that.

“Take the leap.” Says a voice belonging to the spirit who pops into view at my side. He repeats Love’s words from last night, a harsh reminder that she would want me to be brave and go for it.

I sigh, viewing the murals on those rounded walls. “Hi, Cole.”

“You’ll never know unless you try.”

He disappears without another word, making this encounter one of his shortest ones yet.

And now that means it’s two against one. Two spirits against a lowly, squishy mortal. Being outnumbered, I force my feet to pad down the stairs.

I pause just outside the doorway, twiddling my thumbs to distract myself from the fluttering in my stomach. It makes no sense for this to be scarier than accepting an agreement that puts me in a hazardous position, and yet it is anyway. Perhaps it’s because I don’t have an entire hour to think of what to say?

“I’m sorry, ser, I didn’t mean to overhear your conversation with Ser Varric, but I, um, I was invited as well, and I thought that, perhaps, if you would go, then I will, too.” I may be staring down at the floor, but I can still feel Solas’s eyes on me, burning into my very soul. “I realize that probably means nothing to you, as it’s more like a favor to me, I only had an idea that it would be nice to have another familiar face since I don’t really know who any of Varric’s friends are? Not to incorrectly assume anything, of course… I just didn’t think there would be any harm in asking.”

I anxiously press my lips into a hard line and reluctantly flick my gaze over his face. He’s no longer leaning over his desk and is standing fully upright, wearing a neutral expression that says nothing.

“Unless I’m mistaken… which very well could be the case.”

I’m blathering.

“And I offer my sincerest apologies if it is.”

Stop talking.

“…Ser.”

Creators, _shut up_!

I painfully dig my nails deep into my fisted palms to quell the neverending word vomit. However, nothing I can do right now will fix the dreadful embarrassment that makes me want to throw myself off the mountaintops.

Wait, why does he look _amused_? I do a double take on his face and sure enough, his lips are tugged up into a smirk and his eyes are mirthful.

“Very well, _da’len_.” Says Solas between short chuckles; Varric undeniably did right by his nickname.

I blink, dumbfounded. “Oh—really? Because… well, I’m not trying to make you feel obligated to go or anything, you don’t have to if you would prefer doing something else.” I add, shuffling my feet in trepidation.

“Yes, I will go,” he reaffirms, taking a few steps toward where I stand, “if my being there would help that much, then I can suffer a change of scenery.”

I direct to him a timid smile of gratitude. I feel bad for asking this of him since he barely knows _me_ outside of a few conversations about the Fade and whatnot—I can’t provide anything in return that might make him find the outing more agreeable than it already is.

“ _Ma serannas_ , Solas. I… really appreciate it.” I thank with a habitual bow. I really should not be skipping the traditionally appropriate rule of addressing him as ‘hahren’ when he calls me ‘da’len’, but of all the Elven words I know, that one feels the most like poison on my tongue.

“You are welcome.” He says in return as I leave the room and enter the great hall.

That… could have gone worse. Granted, it _was_ pretty awful and my hands are shaking more violently than mabari after a bath, but it wasn’t as terrible as it _could_ have been… and I can’t seem to stop smiling.

I will have to thank Cole for the encouragement the next time I see him.

~

Leliana read the newly-arrived letter thrice before calling for the Inquisitor. Of her three scouts sent to scour the Dales, only one had survived. The lone scout, Marietta, described the two others as having walked into an ambush where hidden archers were waiting in the dark for a victim to step past an unseen threshold and into a clear line of shot. She did not attempt to examine or burn the bodies in fear that she would be the next to die, and thus had no other insight to give on _who_ caused this. It is a similar predicament for the subject of the investigation; before the untimely deaths, the scouts were unable to locate anything of relevance, as did the other groups of scouts sent out to do the same in other areas of eastern Orlais. This in of itself is peculiar to the spymaster.

When Inquisitor Cadash lands at the top of the stairs, she and Leliana share a brief greeting, then discuss the information in Marietta’s letter.

“…‘As for Evuna, it is my personal deduction that there is nothing to be concerned about. We would have found something if there was and whether she is to be kept within the Inquisition or not is a decision that remains in your hands.’” Leliana reads the last paragraph aloud for the Inquisitor, who rests a hand on her chin in thought.

“So, what do you think? Can Evuna be trusted?” Asks the Inquisitor with a serious expression, a rare display on someone who often maintains a genial attitude.

Leliana places the letter on the table. “Marietta has been in my employ for a very long time. Her judgement is reliable and if she believes this tragedy to be nothing more than an organized bandit ambush, then it would be unwise to disregard that… no, I do not _trust_ Evuna, but nor do I think she is a threat.”

“I’m glad to hear it. She’s already agreed to help us, so now maybe I won’t have to listen to Dorian complain about nug shit-tasting health potions.” The Inquisitor purposely raises her voice so that it carries down to the library below the rookery.

Dorian scoffs audibly. “Don’t pretend _you_ didn’t hate them, too!”

Dorian is shushed into silence by a librarian and the Inquisitor inclines back to Leliana with saddened eyes. “Please relay my condolences to the scouts’ families… and that I’m sorry we couldn’t properly lay them to rest.”

The spymaster nods a solemn farewell, and is left alone to write letters informing Piron and Césaire’s next of kin of their demise.

~

The sun sits low in the sky when I open the door to the tavern, allowing temporary passage for the surge of music and laughter until I close it again. The door closes with me inside a place that looks _nothing_ like the tavern I had come to know. The number of current occupants easily triples the modest, more solitary gatherings I had seen when delivering potions to The Iron Bull.

Everyone is loud, there’s a growing crowd by what I think is the bar, there are clashing scents of alcohol, cooked meat, and sweat, and I think someone is singing but I can’t distinguish their words from those said by the other people trying to talk over one another.

A sudden guffaw has me flinching, and I inch closer to the walls, wringing my hands together to fruitlessly occupy myself from the overwhelming sights, smells, and sounds invading my senses. The multitude of human heads make it impossible to scan the area for a dwarven one, especially since my own height can only surpass that of an uncommonly-short human.

This was a horrible idea.

To think that while eating dinner at the mess, I was actually a little excited about the musing of learning to play a new game with friendly acquaintances (specially with one of them being Solas). I should not have gotten my hopes up like that…

“Hey, Fidget, you made it!” Varric, a griffon swooping in to save me, calls from the staircase and pushes through the people to meet up with me. I let out a sigh of marvelous relief, finally finding a familiar face amid the chaos.

“The game’s upstairs.” He says, smiling warmly as he gestures for me to follow. I do so, keeping him within view at all times so I would not get lost in the sea of suffocating crowds. Up the stairs, there’s an immediate change; it’s quieter from there being less people and I can take steadying breaths without every smell imaginable assaulting my nose.

Varric soon stops before a long table fairly secluded from the rest. “And here we are! Grab a seat, Fidget, we’ll get started soon.”

Sheepishly, I look up from the ground and to the people seated at the table—hold on, I recognize some, no, _most_ of them! The Iron Bull is the first of them I notice (for obvious reasons), who takes up all of the space granted by one end of the table while the opposite end sits both Dorian and Cassandra next to each other. An elf I swear is the same one I encountered yesterday leans back in her chair with feet on the table and beside her is the _frigging Inquisitor_.

I blanch momentarily upon seeing her. It’s no secret that she and Varric know each other… and I probably gave him the chance to go and invite her this morning.

I shake myself out of it and move on to the other faces.

Across from the Inquisitor is a freckled, dwarven woman I have never seen before and a human man with an impressive, dark beard. All of them are talking with their table neighbors in a companionable fashion that prevents me from making any sort of introduction of myself… not that I would even _want_ to do that, anyway.

I don’t see Solas, though.

That’s alright. In spite of my disappointment, he probably has something more important to do with his time than attend a card game simply because I asked him to. Besides, I trust that Varric will make this… less scary. 

Varric claims a spot next to the Inquisitor and I place myself on the other side of the table where there are more empty chairs so I would not have to be unnecessarily close to someone. Dorian sends a brief, welcoming smile my way, which hardly eases my nerves at all… I don’t think _anything_ can in this situation. Not while The Iron Bull and the Inquisitor are _both_ here and able to scrutinize my every move, and _especially_ not while I know The Iron Bull reports to Leliana whenever something _remotely_ abnormal happens.

“I remember you!” The blonde elf exclaims, inducing everyone’s attention in a way that makes me shrink into my chair. “You hid me from Ser Buttershoes!”

The Inquisitor chokes on her laughter. “Sera… what?”

“Messed with a prick an’ he saw me so I hid in the mess, an’ she didn’t blab!”

The Inquisitor shakes her head at the elf, Sera, in joking chagrin as a disgusted noise emanates from Cassandra’s direction. Sera, however, keeps grinning at me for some reason. I send a small smile in return, but then stare down at my hands under the table. I’m far too nervous to say anything in front of all these people, so I keep quiet during the next few minutes of idle conversation, my entire body tense and trembling.

Then Varric speaks up: “Alright, is this everyone? Where’s the kid? Ah, he’ll turn up, I’m sure… oh, Chuckles!”

My head perks up at the name as Varric stands to greet the considerably-taller elf that walks to the table in gliding strides. Another smile—one of genuine joy, this time—forms on my lips before I had any chance of controlling it to a size that doesn’t make me look stupid. Solas nods once at my presence, then sits in an open chair across from mine and next to Varric’s.

If Varric collecting me from downstairs is anything like applying a balm to a rashvine rash, then Solas being here now is like taking the antidote for a poison that had a half likelihood of working. Or, in other words, the little worries in the back of my mind, however rational or irrational they were, have been inexplicably assuaged.

The dwarf then produces a deck of cards, shuffling them in his hands. “For those unacquainted, allow me to introduce Evuna, better known as Fidget.” He announces to the table with a storyteller’s flourish. I keep my head low to obscure the blush of embarrassment rising to my cheeks. Thankfully, Varric does not remain silent long enough for the others to say greetings of some kind. “Let’s get started!” 

Varric goes over the rules of the game first and foremost, and presumably purely for my sake. He names the four suits of Angels, Knights, Serpents, and Songs, pointing out the specific illustrations that define the cards as members of that suit. Each card has a theme that denotes its value by way of designs and patterns interlaced with the suit illustration. When I quietly confess to Varric a concern of not remembering which cards are better than others, he assures me that I only need to worry about collecting cards of the same suit and he will tell me if my hand is a good one when the Angel of Death card—that signifies the end of the round—is drawn.

Varric continues to show me unmitigated kindness, and I can’t help but feel undeserving of it… these people could be playing the actual game right now if not for me.

“They like having new people join. It’s more fun that way.”

The empty seat to my left is abruptly occupied by a young man wearing his distinctive, floppy hat. Normally, I would be happy to see Cole, but my chest tightens with panic that the others would be afraid or upset or…

“Kid! I was wondering where you went off to.” Blurts out Varric. “Stick around, I’ll deal you in.”

Varric knows Cole, too? And the others, they don’t react all that much either… well, except for Sera, whose face is contorted to display her extreme discomfort.

I twist in my chair to face Cole as Varric passes out the cards. “Is it safe for you to be here?” I quietly ask him. I can feel the peculiar looks the entire table shoots my way and I shrug them off. This is more important.

“Yes,” is his only answer, which does little to reassure me when I catch The Iron Bull muttering something under his breath, then take a long swig of an _enormous_ tankard.

“I see you’ve already met Cole.” Remarks the Inquisitor. I confirm it with a terse nod.

“Certainly spares us from having to explain anything…” The bearded human says.

“Creepy, that one,” adds a shuddering Sera, scooting backwards in her chair, “thing’s jus’ _wrong_.” I bristle somewhat at the comment; Solas might have as well, if the twitch of an upper lip on his otherwise neutral expression is any indication.

“‘Unique’ might be a better term.” Chimes in the dwarven woman just as Varric tosses the last card to the Inquisitor.

“Dealer starts. Let’s go with… two silver!” He pulls out two silvery coins and drops them to the table.

Oh, crap.

I'm such an idiot!

I… still don’t have any money and I completely forgot that this was a betting game! Maybe I should just… think up a reason to excuse myself and leave or something? I don’t want to be a parasite, which I would be if I somehow end up winning someone else’s coin without contributing in any way myself!

As I feel something is being pushed into my lap, I look down to see Cole setting a small pouch of coins there. I know better than to ask where it came from—for all I know, he could have snatched it from elsewhere or it could be his own and he intends to share it with me, but that then begs the question: why would a spirit need money?

I save the query for a later date and whisper my thanks right when Dorian sets his bet before him.

“Okay, Fidget, you can either match it or raise the stakes.” Varric instructs. I glance at my five cards to see ones of all different suits, and decide it would probably be best _not_ to raise.

I put two of Cole’s coins on the table, trying very hard not to smile at the odd twinges of being permitted to belong… even if it _is_ just for this one evening.

~

In truth, it was _Cole_ who convinced Solas to come, not the elf who had entered the rotunda and started humorously stumbling over her own, inconsistently lilting words while struggling to maintain a polite disposition. The spirit had appeared right next to her and judging by her lack of a reaction, she was unable to see or hear him as he explained her thought process in a much simpler, forthright fashion.

Cole had said: “She wants this, wants to learn and play and hear the stories they tell. But she’s afraid they’ll hate her. Unwilling and unwanting to understand if something is unveiled, trapped, alone among people, in an unknown place of uncandid laughter.”

And so, Solas had sympathized with her, agreeing to attend the card game so that someone with a refreshingly open mind might feel more accepted in a place that would indubitably look down upon her if they learned of such controversial views (which may be unavoidable, given how she treats Cole). For similar reasons, he had a difficult time earning the trust of others; she would have to do the same if the Inquisitor is serious about taking her on as a supplier of all things alchemical.

It suddenly occurs to him that he had never asked for the elf’s name until Varric declares it to the table. She—Evuna, apparently—had never sought out to make it known, either, and seems rather uncomfortable when he does on her behalf, hanging her head low in a way so that her black hair covers much of the sides of her face. That demeanor changes, however, as the game progresses; the first few cards she draws visibly quiver in her hand and her light green eyes stay locked on the table or at her cards, eventually evolving into looking towards the person who speaks and performing plays that gradually become more daring. This confidence climaxes when she snatches the latest card Varric draws from the pile right out of his hand with alarming speed that surprises everyone, including Solas. It is not until Evuna reveals, by fanning them out onto the table, that Varric had broken the rules and drawn an extra card.

“Cheater!” She accuses without a trace of anger in her voice. Laughter ricochets over the most of the table while Cassandra scowls at the recently condemned.

Varric cackles. “Would you believe me if I said it was an accident?”

Evuna subtly shakes her head, cracking a smile—something she has been doing more often since the game’s beginning, although not quite as much as she had during their late-evening discussion a few days prior wherein it was a near constant. The constant in _this_ case is her tendency to be quiet, listening to the conversations and jokes rather than adding anything, likewise with Solas.

Regardless, she would be much better at Wicked Grace if she ever learns to control her tells. She has quite a few.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have but four declarations:  
> -There is a fine line to be balanced betwixt two sides: on one is staying true to Solas's character, and the other is getting him to do what I need him to. If I haven't fallen off of that line already, then consider it a miracle.  
> -The AO3 font despises my punctuation.  
> -Those walls around Skyhold? Yeah, they're called ramparts, not battlements, apparently. I have since rectified that in the previous chapter but I'm kind of mad at myself for missing that.  
> -I love each and every one of you <3


	9. Splinters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did this chapter want to be written? No, no it did not.
> 
> ***Updated due to a minor oversight on my part (just a small inconsistency that probably no one noticed)

If there’s one thing I have learned so far from being at Skyhold, it would be that I kind of suck at Wicked Grace. Yes, Varric did mention at one point that it’s a difficult game to master, but to me, it seemed like _everyone_ had mastered it. All the more when those who were well into their drinks (which were all except for Solas, Cole, and I, who had not a single drop of one) and at the very least tipsy, they upheld whatever strategies they followed. Meanwhile, Solas didn’t look like he was trying in the slightest; it’s as if he had not a single care for winning, but still won quite a few more times than what would be expected from someone with that outlook. It makes me curious about how well he plays when he _is_ trying… unless he was acting like that to throw people off?

As for myself, I was doing well for a few rounds where I was consecutively dealt good hands and won the pot. That streak didn’t last long, unfortunately, and I lost more money than either Cole or I could win back. I’m lucky I only managed to lose about half of his pouch of coin; I apologized profusely when I handed it back to him after the last round, although because of his compassionate nature, he forgave me instantly and tried to get me to keep what remained of it for myself.

I refused him, of course. It would not sit right with me if I took advantage of him any more than I already do. Skyhold better be treating him well—Sera and The Iron Bull’s outward discomfort around him worries me that someone will want to hurt him one day. I can’t be sure how the others, most notably the Inquisitor, feel about the spirit since whatever opinions they have were never expressed. Compassion spirits are so rare yet so vital that I don’t think the world can afford to lose another, lest the virtue be forgotten any more than it is.

I wonder, though, why Varric invited Cole when he, presumably, knows that Cole could very well use his ability to see into people’s minds and gain an upper hand. He would never, as it’s completely against his nature, but would someone like, say, Cassandra, know and trust that? They must, if they let him stay… unless it was because the Inquisitor allowed for it, with her word having the most value.

All I can know for certain is that Solas is the only one I can trust not to harm Cole. He understands what Cole is, and whether or not anyone else does is something I haven’t been able to discern. Even with Varric—as kind as he may be, I fear he might one day expose him to a corruptive aspect of our world simply from not knowing any better.

I quietly sigh, fingers twisting strands of hair into a braided length, still damp from my trip to the baths. I must stop dwelling on such things, as there’s nothing I can do to change it. I’m an alchemist—the _Inquisitor’s_ alchemist now, I suppose, not some university scholar who can declare what’s best for a spirit on the ‘wrong’ side of the Veil without inciting further questions that would lead down a road preferably left forgotten forever.

Agnes and Sessa wish me a good night’s rest before slipping under their own blankets. I stay awake for a little while longer to read the last few chapters of _The Viper’s Nest_ by the soft, golden light of a lone candle. Darkness envelops the room when I finally blow it out and set my mind towards the Fade.

-

My hand lays on the forehead of the memory of this loyal beast, thumb gently stroking the coat of rich grey—almost blue—on the space between his eyes adoringly. The Fade had not caught me unawares this time when it set me in a dream, one of a memory from seven years ago… a happy one that I don’t want to leave just yet.

Faron huffs with a hoof stomp and butts his head into my shoulder; he was never one for manners and the spirit taking on his being is playing the part with precision.

I laugh and climb onto the weatherworn, secondhand saddle that I had traded a ram’s pelt for. It’s an old thing with leather loops acting as makeshift stirrups and laden with self-made straps and buckles meant to hold certain pieces of equipment. Said equipment during this moment of the past is tucked away in a nearby cave, freeing my horse of the burden for a chance of remembering what it feels like to run.

My heels kick into my Faron’s sides and he launches forward, galloping at full speed, hooves pounding into the leaf-covered earth as the crisp wind whips past my face and tangles up my hair, long since fallen loose from its restricting bun. The surrounding trees pass us by as a blur of browns, reds, oranges, and yellows, the glaring, golden sunrise glinting through the gaps. I had not cared to keep track of where we ended up in the world; for all either of us know, we could be somewhere in Rivain.

Faron jumps over a stream with a bound like a halla’s, powerful rear legs sending us flying into the air, weightless for a second before landing rather clumsily. I use the stirrups to rebalance myself, the thick leather digging into the arches of my bare feet that feel every breath he takes.

In the waking world, we rode like that for what felt like an eternity that ended too soon when the stallion grew tired. Here in the Fade, I have the wherewithal to make this last for as long as I desire, which is exactly why it _can’t_. A desire demon’s attention can be drawn by such indulgences. They seek out desires and exploit them, offering someone what they had always wanted in exchange for being allowed entry to their mind, and in turn the world, in the form of an abomination.

I had many close encounters in the past when I was still learning about how spirits functioned—but such as with a child who burns their hand on a flame, more often than not, they will know not to do it again.

Faron races by a boulder blanketed by lichen while I swing one leg back and over his rump, then dismount to drop down to the ground. My lost horse dissipates into the distance as I change the Fade to a forest I have yet to see when awake.

The stars of the night sky stretch above, perpetually cloudless to illuminate the woods and its ever emerald leaves.

Time to face the music.

Right on cue, the wispy spirit descends from the canopy of the giant tree with a speed rivaled only by Faron’s and with a beaming, rosy grin. Love flits about me like an excited bee to a flower, examining me from every angle.

“Ohhhhh,” she gushes, blushing, “how the butterflies flutter by inside, wriggly wigglings so sweet they make you sick with smiles!”

“Here we go…” I murmur, knowing that there’s nothing I can do to prevent what’s to come.

“Did you see the way he _smiled_ at you? When the butterflies made you forget how to control your tongue and the words kept spilling out?” The Fade shows us the snippet of when Solas chuckled at my verbal meanderings. “Aaaaand when you caught the author-dwarf cheating?” The scene changes to when I swiped the cards from Varric’s grip. “Remember how it made _you_ smile, tooooo? Mutual merriment of souls that shine of sharpness, rippling on the Veil, a sunset on a sea!”

“Okay, Love, you’re starting to lose me here. What ‘sharpness’?” I ask, disturbing her excessive ardor.

She orients herself to face me, struggling to remain still. “The brightness! You wear your magic on your skin, glowing of the place of dreams, as does he! It’s so beeaauutiful!”

I had already figured Solas for a mage, but it hardly explains what Love is going on about.

I cock my head to the side to display my confusion.

Love giggles mischievously. “You want me to spoil the mystery, Lethallan… I’m afraid you’ll have to be patient.” She turns away from me and begins drifting towards the tree. I follow idly behind, savoring the grass on my feet.

“Well, _I’m_ afraid this ‘mystery’ will continue as one forever, if I have any inkling for what you’ll need me to do to uncover it.”

“ _Do_ you?” She angles her head back slightly so I can see her smirk. “Or mayyyyybe you’ve already done it. The missing gear replaced, the candle lit, the sail hoisted.”

I can’t tell if she’s just messing with me or not. I _really_ hope she is because otherwise, the implications that I have started down a path without meaning to are troubling ones that unsettle me with a mere thought.

I climb up to sit on a bough, legs dangling in the air and quiet for a time as Love joins me at my side. I gaze up at the stars through the leaves as though they might provide some sort of answer to a question I haven’t found the words for. If anything is said by them, it’s done so too quietly to be heard over the cricket chirpings.

“I _am_ proud of you, too.” Avows Love, soft and ariose. “You remembered your courage when you needed it most and _accepted_ it. You didn’t hide away to escape the new and strange, instead you faced it, embraced it, and found happiness in it.”

My fingers, needing something to occupy them, pick at the tree’s bark. Not to rip off the protective armor, no—to feel the rough texture beneath the pads of my fingertips, the rises and falls separated with crevices where bugs burrow in the cracks.

“I… I don’t know what to think anymore.” I tell her, almost a whisper. “I thought I was used to things changing. The world naturally changes with the seasons and civilizations rise and fall through the ages, it’s a guarantee. People were supposed to be the _one_ consistent thing, and now even the slightest inconsistency with that is enough to make me question everything.” I take a steadying breath. “Makes me wonder… is this just some sort of fluke? An odd chance of fate that I found myself around people who _don’t_ think I’m better off dead? If it isn’t, then, and the voices of the depraved were always speaking louder than the rest… what else have I been wrong about?”

A sparkling sensation blooms on my shoulder where Love places a reassuring hand, leaving my question unanswered but not ignored; an unspoken instruction that it’s another thing _I_ will have to discover for myself. We stay like that for quite some time, looking out into the forest, until she decides to break the peace in the _worst_ way possible.

“Sooooo, Solas is pretty cute, huh?” She croons, and I choke so violently from surprise that I start coughing.

Love will be the death of me one day if she keeps doing this to me…

Once I regain my composure, I force on a glowering expression to detract from my flushing face. “ _Really_ , Love? We were having a moment!”

Love laughs and removes her hand from my shoulder. “Welllll? Isn’t he?”

“No.”

“Says she who claimed not so long ago that ‘he’s got quite a nice nose’.”

Low blow, Love… using my own words against me. I feel my cheeks redden even further, so I look down at my swinging feet.

“That… that was an observation! It’s not any different from saying that someone has beautiful eyes or, um… a shapely chin or something.”

“Which you think he has both.”

“No, I don’t!”

She laughs again, harder this time. “You’re a terrible liar.”

I slump in defeat. “Yeah… I know.”

-

I awaken far sooner than I want to, but the passage of time is an inevitability that can’t be stayed. Pulling myself out from under the woolen blanket, I stand to stretch my arms in the room’s dimness before searching through my chest for a tunic and a pair of leggings to don. It’s beginning to be very tempting to take my knife and cut off sections of all the clothing’s fabric to make them fit better with a needle and thread. The sleeves are always too long and don’t lay properly against my skin, allowing for the flow of cool air that will undoubtedly become a problem when winter comes—it’s the same story with each pair of pants, and the only thing stopping me from fixing the problem is that I don’t _actually_ own these clothes. The _Inquisition_ does, and it would be unfair of me to expect them to know what fits me.

Nevertheless, I once again find myself wishing to have a belt.

From under the bed, I grab the two books stored there and stash them, along with my knife, inside my pack. It’s about time I returned these to the library. By now, someone is probably waiting for them to be available and I have hoarded them for longer than necessary.

I pass by the beds of my sleeping roommates on the way out the door, mindful of the hinges that squeak when moved too fast or too slow, and trek to the mess hall for whatever gloppy substance labeled as a ‘breakfast’ is being served today.

Which, as it turns out, is oatmeal. Again.

Ugh, I really hate that stuff.

I carry my bowl over to a table whose benches are mostly empty and plop myself down at a spot by the end. With a poke from my spoon, I test the consistency of the oatmeal in the vain hope of it being something other than… _weird_. My nose involuntarily scrunches as I chew the first spoonful.

“Not a fan, I take it?”

I nearly jump straight out of my seat at the abrupt voice, and again when its origin, a giant qunari, sits down across from me.

“N-no, not particularly.” I squeak, not daring to meet The Iron Bull’s face out of his looming, intimidating semblance that I don’t think I could ever become accustomed to. It’s easier with other people around to pull his attention away from me, but _any_ one-on-one sort of circumstance is fear-inducing enough in of itself without it involving The Iron Bull.

He leans forward onto his elbows. “Yeah, but food’s food, though. Can’t afford to be picky when things run scarce.”

I certainly know that feeling all too well. I tentatively nod in understanding, taking another bite of the oatmeal as an excuse to not talk.

“Especially on the road.” He adds. I look up, brows furrowing and a question forming on my lips that’s answered before I could speak it. “The Inquisitor told us about how you’ll be helping out. Must not’ve been an easy decision.”

Ah, so Leliana’s investigation over me must have gone… favorably… if the Inquisitor has already confirmed this… arrangement. There seem to be no correct words to accurately describe this situation, and I don’t know why there would be; I have never done anything like this before, and this conversation hardly does anything to clarify what exactly is going on or where this is going.

I recommence poking the spongy mass in my bowl, contemplative. “If I may… what do you mean when you say ‘us’? Are you part of her ‘Inner Circle’ I’ve heard mentioned?”

“Yep. That’s the Inquisitor and everyone who lends a hand on missions. Actually, without including Scout Harding, most of ‘em were at the game last night. All except for Viv.”

In an instant, all of the blood drains from my face. I have cohorted with some of Thedas’s most powerful people without even _realizing_ it?! It explains _why_ they all knew each other, but it would have been nice if I knew who they were beforehand so I could have had the forethought to be _extra_ careful around them if not avoid them entirely! Which I have done an awful job at considering Love’s current evaluation of my… personal affairs, to put in vaguer terms.

“Oh,” is the only reply I can manage, mind reeling to process this new piece of information that clicks firmly into place. How did I miss this? If I were paying more attention, I would have been able to see this for myself, take appropriate measures, maybe act more respectful of their positions!

“Don’t worry, though, I’m sure you’ll fit right in.” Asserts The Iron Bull, despite that specific concern not yet crossing my mind until he brought it up. “Anyway, I didn’t come here just to freak you out…”

Oh, really? Because you’re doing _fantastically_ at it so far!

“…you’ve said you have experience with daggers?”

“Yes, I suppose, if trying not to die counts as experience.” I warily affirm. It makes sense for him to know this, seeing how he’s in cahoots with the spymaster and probably knows more about me than _I_ do at this point.

“Meet me at the sparring rings in a bit and show me.” He strongly suggests, leaving no leeway for refusal.

I blink. “What?”

“Punching a bad guy doesn’t work that great if they’ve got a sword on you, so it’d be important to know _sooner_ and not later if it turns out you can only shiv ‘em with a cheese knife.” He points a large finger at the knife—a _hunting_ knife—handle poking out of my pack, which I had placed next to me on the bench.

“What if it’s a _poisoned_ cheese knife?” I protest, frowning. The Iron Bull lets out a short bark of laughter.

“Might give you an advantage, but sure it ain’t reliable if you’re caught by surprise.” He says.

I hate that I completely agree with him. Rarely had I ever used poisons in combat; I would keep most of what I made to sell, not to use unless there came a time where I had _expected_ to be assaulted, which was almost never.

And grenades are more my style, in any event.

“Okay,” I acquiesce, “I’ll meet with you after I summon the willpower to eat this…”

The Iron Bull grins approvingly and stands up from the table, leaving me to force down the off-putting texture that is oatmeal as the feeling in my hands steadily returns.

I understand why he’s doing this. He, and the others, need to know if I would be in constant need of surveillance if something were to occur, or if they can in good conscience leave me to my own devices if, no, _when_ , the need arises. My word alone would not be enough to alleviate any ambiguity of what I can do—it has to be proven.

I leave the mess hall, still chewing the last scoop of oatmeal while I cross Skyhold’s sunrise-washed yards to the one dedicated for training its forces, where I find The Iron Bull waiting for me in a ring. A random fence post becomes the temporary wearer of my tattered, green cloak and my pack, and I tie my hair back into a bun as best as I can in the absence of a pin to hold it neatly in place. Doing so makes my face completely visible, provoking the feelings of being naked and exposed that I struggle to ignore.

Hopping over the fence, a question comes to me out of the blue.

“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be… hungover or something? You drank a lot of… whatever it was you were drinking, yesterday.” I inquire, looking down and digging my toes into the dirt where I stand out of uncertainty of what to do with myself.

The qunari snorts. “I am. Not nearly as bad as the others will be, though. Sera’ll no doubt be passed out until noon—she can’t hold her liquor for shit. The Inquisitor, too, but she can at least pace herself.” The Iron Bull gestures over to a crate filled with what looks to be wooden sticks. “I’d like not to get stabbed today, so take your pick and then we’ll see what you do with them.”

Crouching down before the crate, it’s obvious now that they are replicated daggers made of crudely sanded wood, and possibly meant for training children in preparation to handle a real sword. Each one is different from the next, with a different kind of ‘blade’ shape, hilt length, and signs of wear from use. My efforts to find one that remotely resembles the daggers I had previously are futile, so I settle with a pair that look reasonably alike to one another.

It’s an odd feeling, this, with my hands gripping a reminder of what had once been my lifeline.

_Life or death, a power that was held within the lethal extensions of my body. The quivering bandit who found himself on the wrong end of my blades by making the wrong decisions stared into my eyes, dark and brown and terrified. One movement would have drained the life from those eyes, but I let him go. There was no need for another death when I knew he would eagerly run away._

I stand fully and face The Iron Bull, who moved to the opposite side of the ring. “What now?”

“Come at me!” He directs with a peculiar enthusiasm.

“But… you’re not armed.”

“Don’t need to be. I’m already an unfair target, and I’m not here to challenge you. Just go for it like I’m your average Imperial Highway raider who happens to be an idiot that lost his weapon.”

I glance down at the wooden practice daggers in my hands, then back to The Iron Bull. “What if I give you a splinter?”

“You’re _not_ gonna give me a splinter,” he groans, a sound comparable to that of a bronto’s—a bronto that is clearly losing his patience with me, “qunari skin is a lot thicker than yours.”

His stance is casual now, bearing weight on one leg with an arm akimbo, waiting for me to give the go-ahead that I don’t plan on giving.

I take this brief moment to note that his eyepatch is indeed, covering his _left_ eye.

“Interesting…” I begin, pretending to test the heft of the daggers, “I guess you learn something new every—”

I charge to the left and down, feinting before leaping back to the right and under The Iron Bull’s arms that fail to catch me now that I’m in his blind spot. He isn’t able to see me as I twist around to behind his legs where I jab a dagger into the pit of each knee, only just hard enough for him to feel what I did, and not to split the flimsy wooden blade into the cloth of his pants.

My worry for leaving splinters _was_ genuine, aside from using it to stall.

The Iron Bull grunts as he jumps away and turns to face me with a properly defensive posture, which is honestly kind of unrealistic if we’re pretending this to be an actual encounter, wherein he should instead be struggling to stand. I’m content to let it go, though.

“You sneaky little…” He grumbles. I flash an innocent smile before running at him again. He’s prepared for it this time, but this is where my smaller frame and faster speed helps me; as he lunges to grab at me, I dodge his large (and also slow) arms and step onto his bent leg. The harness he wears across his chest is the perfect thing to grip and swing myself up and over to his shoulders (while being mindful of the horns, of course), using one leg to wrap around his thick neck that keeps me from falling off as I maneuver the daggers to cross over his jugular from behind.

The Iron Bull raises his hands in surrender. “All right, all right… you got me. What’re you, some kind of cat? How are you even _doing_ that with your leg?”

The exhalation of my held breath comes out as a giggle and I release both my leg and the daggers from his neck to slide down his back. I’m quite flexible by elf standards; all of those years of regular stretching have paid off on several occasions—I haven’t done so in awhile… I should get back into that habit, lest I lose it.

“So, um… how was that?” I ask, falling back into my typical demureness as the adrenaline wanes from my system.

“It’s obvious you know what to do, how to take advantage of the little things, but I can tell you’re self-taught. You’ve got some quirks—your left wrist is curled in more than the right, for example. Makes for a wonky cut if you’re trying to slice something with that hand.” He comments, walking off to the side somewhere and returning with a long, wooden pole that he holds up in front of him like one would a sword. “Let’s change this up a bit, yeah? Maybe then I’ll last longer.”

The corners of my mouth curl up into a slight smile. Somehow, I think this is going to be fun.

The Iron Bull and I spend the majority of the morning sparring with our wooden sticks, if ‘sparring’ includes me jabbing at the man while he tries to fend me off with his pole-sword. He sustains a defensive position purely so he can see how I carry myself in combat, and only ever strikes when it’s convenient for me to demonstrate what I do to block if dodging is impossible (which I’m extremely thankful for, because if I saw a qunari rushing straight towards me, swinging a weapon this way and that, I would have _bolted_ and never looked back). I have never been very proficient with blocking, as I always have a hard time gaining the leverage needed to thwart the offending weapon oftentimes held by someone much stronger than me. The Iron Bull tells me after our last match that we can work on it in the future, but is satisfied with my current capabilities. And, unless my ears had failed me, he’s impressed that I was able to teach myself so well without an instructor in a way that reminds him of Sera, who apparently taught herself how to shoot a bow.

I’m unsure how I feel about that comparison. But then again, I hardly know Sera sufficiently enough to make a proper opinion of her that looks past the ‘loud bluntness’ that, for all I know, could only be a side effect of being plastered.

In the end, I count a total of seven splinters in both palms of my hands, which I should have expected from pairing the training daggers’ unprotected wooden grips with a lack of gloves—or a qunari’s thick skin.

-

“ _Fenedhis_!” I hiss, the tweezer once again losing its hold on the sliver of wood embedded deep into my skin. The elfroot extract I had mixed up may have been able to numb the tiny wounds’ surfaces, but not much can be done for the stinging that occurs every time the stubborn splinter shifts in my flesh. To make matters a tad worse, the blood beading up from all of my failed attempts makes it progressively difficult to succeed.

As I take another shot at it, I hear footsteps against the undercroft’s stone floor approach from behind to where I’m bent over my workspace. I don’t turn to face them when the steps pause, not while my concentration is too ingrained within the task at hand.

The unknown person clears their throat. “Is… this a bad time?”

“Wait, hold on, almost got it…” I mutter, slowly but surely pulling the splinter until it’s, at last, withdrawn in full. “There we go! Sweet Sylaise, that was a tough one.” I spin around, still holding the tweezers that pinch the final sliver, to see features belonging to a troubled-looking Adan, the human I haven’t seen since my first day working here.

“Oh, hello, ser. What can I do for you?” I greet with a small bow after placing the wonderful little tool on the table.

Adan scratches at his dark beard. “Not for _me_ , per se, but possibly for a patient. The apothecaries’ve tried nearly everything in the book, except they might as well just be slapping the poor lad with a fish for how much good it’s done. And the mage healers can’t help either, not while they’re stretched as thin as they are now.”

“Hm, yes, I might be able to help… what are his symptoms?”

“Feverish, chest pain, fluid in the lungs and always coughing—can’t take too deep a breath without causing a fit. They say not even setting embrium at his bedside changes anything.”

That sounds familiar; I have helped with countless afflictions with similar, if not identical, signs. 

I nod. “I have just the thing. You can wait here, if you want. It won’t take long.”

I get to work without delay, washing away the spots of blood that dot my palms before collecting from the ingredients stash a stem of elfroot and the freshest, most fragrant embrium blossoms I could pick out among the herbs partially dried for preservation’s sake. It’s far from ideal quality, but I’m more than willing to work with what I have.

I treat the elfroot how I would a basic healing potion, the only deviation being a dash of concentrator agent that will come into play later on after I prepare the embrium. Laying the large blossoms flat on the table, I carefully pluck off the petals surrounding the centers that would be glowing bright orange if they were still attached to the plant. The center of the flower is where its fragrance is secreted into the air, so it would be impractical to keep the cumbersome petals attached when they could be used for something else.

When the healing potion is finished, I pour it into a cylindrical, glass bottle that sits over a conjured flame. It stays like that for a few minutes while I insert the blossom centers into it, having to gently squeeze them through the neck of it. The very last step requires me to cork up and shake the bottle, then simmer over the same flame.

This method is pretty different from the one most commonly practiced—which is presumably what the others tried at first, and thus why, if my hypothesis is correct, it didn’t work. The common method is, in essence, a broth that calls for _twice_ the amount of elfroot to embrium, which is useless when treating lung infections that have become too severe. Elfroot, as good as it is at numbing pain, curing minor ailments, or speeding up new tissue growth, does nothing to ease breathing and clear the lungs. The _embrium_ is responsible for that, and with the addition of the concentrator agent in the elfroot concoction, the effect is more or less tripled as the elfroot numbs the pain and repairs damaged tissue.

Blowing out the flame, I cover the now-hot bottle with a piece of cloth and hand it off to Adan, who’s brows are raised with piqued curiosity.

“Bring this to a boil and have him breathe in the vapors for ten minutes about every three hours.” I tell him. “If it gets worse or doesn’t clear up completely in a few days, come back to me and we can try something else.”

“Will do, assuming the Inquisitor doesn’t send you off somewhere by then.” He remarks. A wave of guilt washes over me. I had never even thought to ask if he would be alright with me accepting the Inquisitor’s proposal; he must feel like I betrayed him.

I stare down at my fiddling fingers that itch to have something to do. “I’m sorry, ser… for not coming to you first about that.”

“Ah, there’s no need to be,” says Adan, sincere, “I’m not here to govern your choices, and I’ve not a doubt in mind that you’ve made the right one. You do good work here, Evuna, but it doesn’t take much to see your talents aren’t put to the best possible use.”

“Will the, um, other alchemists handle things alright whenever I’m not around?”

“I should think so, it’s been easier to keep up now that the garden’s up to snuff. I suspect the only problem to come of it’ll be a few complaining healers. Your potions are popular among them, so much so they’ve taken to buying them off from one another.” He reveals with a smile.

Great. I’m blushing quite a bit, now. I have never been used to hearing comments meant to praise, and this is really getting to be all too much—mostly because Adan has absolutely no reason to spare the time of day to tell me these things. He has nothing to gain, so why risk feeding my ego?

He gently bounces the bottle he holds. “I ought to get this delivered. You take care of yourself, now.”

He turns to leave, but I speak up before he can take a step. “One more thing, ser… a few days ago you left a note about moving all alchemists to the same place, and I was wondering if I might be permitted to continue working down here? It’s just… I work better on my own, and I’ve grown kind of fond of this place.”

Ugh, that probably just _screams_ ‘the Inquisitor likes me and therefore I think I deserve special treatment’! One might think that for someone who overthinks every situation, I sure am lousy at thinking things through before opening my mouth sometimes.

“I’ll pass it on to Elan. _She’s_ technically the one in charge of the entire apothecary, though I don’t see why she wouldn’t let you.” Adan accedes, seemingly without any hesitation. It catches me off guard at first, as I was expecting a completely different reply. Regardless, I offer him a word of thanks with a bow, then redirect my attention back to my workspace as he exits the undercroft, the door closing heavily behind him. I haven’t even looked at today’s requests yet; I should get on with it before someone gets upset for having a later-than-usual delivery.

I start working straight away. It doesn’t matter that it’s roughly past midday and I’m only running on a meager portion of oatmeal, it’s more important that people get what they need without having to adjust to _my_ unforeseen schedule change. My stomach may have much to say about that decision, but if it can deal with having nothing other than water for a record eight days in a row, then this should be a cinch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have but two declarations:  
> -I pretty much had to bully this chapter so it would let me write it.  
> -Thank you guys so much for leaving kudos and comments, they make my day every single time! <3


	10. Placid Rants and Simple Gestures

It takes me the majority of the afternoon to make and deliver the requested products. The last one, asked for under the name ‘Elvire Plourde’, is a set of ridiculously complicated tonics that each take a significant amount of time to produce (and make my hands awfully sticky), but the prospect of getting a moment free to eat something afterwards gives me the drive to be patient (if not a tad testy).

I think I’m starting to get too used to having food available all hours of the day. It’s not as though I’m not appreciative of it—I am very much so—it’s only that my body often too hastily settles into a schedule.

Once finished with the tonics, I set out to track the stranger down by inquiring her name to workers who look relatively friendly. Eventually, the trail leads me down a passage lined with windows, where I spot the appropriate person based on the vague descriptions given to me.

After a short greeting, I hand the two bottles over to the woman wearing what could be described as the epitome of Orlesian fashion, complete with a mint mask beneath a hat embellished with so many flowers that it might as well be called a garden. She takes them from me with poise stretched through to the very tips of her gloved fingers, but briefly pauses with a dramatic gasp.

I look up at her face to see what’s wrong, only to be blocked from knowing her true expression by the mask.

“ _You_!” She cries out, one hand held up to the mask’s mouth.

This can’t be good.

Should I run? Maybe I should run. No wait, that would make it seem like _I_ did something, unless I _did_ do something? What did I do?

Did I steal something from her at one point? It’s possible, considering she looks like the kind of person who would not miss a single royal, except I had always made _certain_ to keep out of sight with those sorts of things.

“You’re that rabbit! I would recognize that…” she gestures vaguely to my entire being, “…tattered, woodland vagrant look _anywhere_!” Her accented tone holds something akin to disgust, or possibly contempt? Is it towards my clothes alone or me being ‘that rabbit’? I only know that running is sounding like a better idea by the second… 

I bow my head as my hands clasp tightly together behind my back. “Sincerest apologies, serah, but I don’t understand?” I admit in the voice reserved specifically for Orlesian clients, dripping with a nauseating kindness that they seem to _adore_ . Especially when a knife-ear does it— _then_ , it’s entertaining.

“Do not address me with that… _tripe_ … and of course you don’t. You were only good for one thing and then you suddenly decide to up and disappear on me for good!” Spits the woman. “Do you know what I had to _do_ to find even _one_ alternative?! My reputation was all but stunted and oh, the _whispering_ !” She visibly shudders. “It _haunts_ me to this very day…”

By a nug’s naked uncle, I thought I was done with, or at the very least on a break from, dealing with snotty nobles who take _everything_ personally. I recognize that many of my regular clients might be upset with me failing to make another appearance, but what choice did I have?

Taking a deep breath, I plaster on a fake smile and curl my toes into the stone floor.

“I, er, regret that I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean… did I prepare something for you before?” I ask, hoping that she might accept the idea that I could not possibly remember each and every one of my past regulars.

Naturally, that hope is tossed into the Void.

The woman makes a rancorous noise. “The rabbit has a memory of one, as well… if you _must_ be reminded, I am Lady Plourde. I should trust you _do_ , in some, however measly measure, recall me purchasing a solution to my dear husband’s…” she pauses, perhaps either to search for a word or for an unnecessary dramatic effect, “…perceptiveness.”

Ah, right. That definitely rings a bell, and a scandalous one, at that.

One, unfortunately faithful day, Lady Plourde approached my ‘shop’ while it was set up some ways outside Val Royeaux with the request for a potion that might make a person oblivious for a time. I had not asked for any details, since discretion is more easily maintained that way, so I sold her an _immensely_ diluted poison wherein the effects would only put the drinker in a daze. Needless to say, I would receive the same request every time I found myself in the area. It wasn’t until much later that I learned, by way of her uncomfortable desire to boast, that she used the poison to occasionally slip out of her estate unnoticed to spend time with her secret lover. I very nearly refused to continue making the poison for her, but I didn’t. I was often low on funds and desperate, and she always paid generously, thus ensuring my business could survive.

I’m not too proud of allowing that to go on and it’s become one of my many regrets, not to mention that, besides her poor husband having _her_ for a wife, he is also most likely suffering long-term effects from the poison by now.

“Of course, Lady Plourde, how could I ever forget you and your penchant for dalliances?” I say more sardonically than is necessarily called for, but her pretentiousness is irritating.

The Orlesian tucks the bottles into a pocket hidden in her full skirts, _tsk_ -ing. “Do mind your tongue, yes? Unless you plan to run my name further through the mud than you have already.”

“I believe that was your _own_ doing, madame, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Oh, but you are. Now, this exchange is _dreadfully_ boring… be a good little rabbit and fetch me some wine. I’m positively parched.” She dismisses me with a flick of her hand, and the smile I managed to hold for this long finally drops.

Is she serious?

“Then it must be absolutely terrible to know that I’m not a servant.” I tell her, the hands behind my back clenching harder.

“Did I ask? Hop along now, and do be quick about it.” Commands the ever-apathetic Lady Plourde as she examines the lace on her glove.

Did she not hear me? No, she _definitely_ did. She just doesn’t give a sodding load and thinks any elf, regardless of their true occupation, is here to submit to her whims. It makes every fiber of my being bristle and I have to take a deep breath to keep my composure. I have endured encounters with these kinds of people before; I can do it again.

“I’m afraid I have other duties that require my attention more urgently,” I coolly refuse, “surely it won’t be too difficult to find someone else to impose your desires on. Preferably someone who is _paid_ to.”

I turn to walk away from Lady Plourde, only to be stopped mid-step by a woman sporting the red robes of the Chantry.

Oh for… why. Just… _why_?!

“Forgive my intrusion, but is there a problem here?” Interjects the… sister? Or is she a mother? I can’t bring myself to care which stupid hat denotes which stupid rank right now.

“No, I was just leav—”

“Yes, Sister, there most certainly _is_ .” Lady Plourde cuts in, aghast and shrill. “I’m utterly disappointed the Inquisition allows its people to treat guests of nobility with such… _blatant_ disrespect! And from an _elf_ , no less!”

I start to speak, prepared to tell the full story, but the sister renders me mute with a hand gesture.

She humbly bows to Thedas’s most arrogant noble I have ever had the displeasure of knowing. “I offer you the Inquisition’s deepest regrets. If you wish, you may bring this to the attention of Ambassador Montilyet so appropriate action can be taken.”

“Thank you, I think I will do just that.” Lady Plourde eyes me through her mask as she glides away, and I suddenly find that I can do nothing but stare at the floor where she previously stood, baffled, bewildered, and most importantly, frustrated beyond belief.

“Well? What do you have to say for yourself?” The sister demands.

My hands unclasp and drop to my sides, an exasperated breath escaping me. I know what she wants to hear: an apology. The truth never matters when there’s an easy scapegoat within arms’ reach, where people will accept it unconditionally.

Burying away my rising resentment, frustration, and the fact that I would really like a frigging _sandwich_ , I put on a face that feasibly reads as a shameful one.

“I’m sorry.” I say, quiet.

“You should know better than this! The Inquisition needs alliances, which are harder to keep if not extended the courtesy they’re entitled to!”

Entitled, yes, but deserving? No, I don’t think so.

“Yes… Sister. I understand.”

She sighs. “I should hope you do. I better not be hearing about any more incidents from now on. Carry on.”

With that, the sister leaves, and I’m somewhere between annoyed and fuming. It’s not easy to name that agitated, pent-up energy roiling from head to toe, having nowhere to go but somewhere inside where there isn’t enough space to coexist. Fiddling with an experimental grenade won’t help this time; it’s never worked to distract me from this feeling I try so hard to avoid or push away.

I need to punch a tree. Or at least berate one until I feel better before apologizing to it.

But seeing how I have yet to see a single tree secluded from the eyes of passersby, my feet take the initiative and start briskly marching through Skyhold’s corridors and yards towards an undecided destination.

Why is it so hard to look past a person’s appearance and accept that the shape of one’s ears or height doesn’t define their inferiority?

_Hahren Radavur always said: “the shemlen are dangerous. They dock your ears to appear more human, all the while forcing you to serve them” and “they want_ **_slaves_ ** _, not allies”._

Except I have seen that that’s not true for all of them; most are content to let you go about your business, keeping any opinions to themselves, but there are still far too many who feel the need to remind you where you stand compared to them. And what does the Chantry, the allegedly-neutral power, do about it? They _support_ striking elves from history, they _teach_ that humans are superior by some divine right crap, they do _nothing_ but spread fear and contempt towards things they don’t bother trying to understand.

_“Why?” I had once asked, tiny-voiced and curious, little hands twirling a picked flower._

_“Greed and a lust for power is ingrained in their blood.” He explained. “Much like the wickedness in yours.”_

At some point, I pass by Varric. I must be showing my pissed-off state in my expression or my gait because he says not a word to me as I pull open the door to the rotunda. It doesn’t fully register that _here_ , of all places, is where my body led me until Solas looks over to me, a brow quirked up in an unspoken question. I park myself at one of the outer expanses of the floor, hands wringing on where I should even begin.

“One would think that making and delivering time-consuming tonics that use up the entire supply of prophet’s laurel and seven lifestones _each_ , the client would do no more than let you continue about your day,” I start, maintaining a placid voice, “but no. Apparently that’s _unthinkable_ if the knife-eared alchemist who made them, is the exact same one she bought stuff from in the past.”

I begin pacing back and forth, speaking more to the walls and the floor than to the room’s denizen. “So then she took that as an opportunity to tell me how _I_ soiled her reputation—I suppose I understand why she did, since it does sort of lead back to me… but it’s not my fault she went around _telling_ people about her gallivanting to find another poison. She blamed me because I never came back, but what was I supposed to do? I had lost everything, mages and templars were throwing hissy fits at every crossroad, there was a sodding _hole_ in the _sky_!” The volume of my voice threatens to rise above indoor-appropriate-levels, but I catch it before it can.

Can’t say the same for my accent, though; that has long since slipped out.

“And then she orders me to get her wine! That’s not even my _job_ and I told her that but she didn’t care, she only cared that I was a rabbit who she could push around!” My pacing stops in front of the couch and my hands toss up in vexation. “That’s not even the worse part. A _Chantry Mother_ —er, _Sister_ , or whichever title, comes up and takes Lady Plourde’s side without giving me a single chance to explain things from _my_ side. I was automatically assumed to be the one in the wrong because I ‘disrespected guests of nobility’, when I just wasn’t going to take being brutalized like that. I can take the occasional slur, sure, but there are worse lines to be crossed, which the Chantry person clearly couldn’t see because she directed Lady Plourde to—”

However much ire I had left, it instantly transforms into a pit in my stomach. I plop down on the couch, chest tightening with this new realization.

“Oh… no,” I falter, “Lady Plourde was told to go to the Ambassador about this… I… I’m going to lose my job now, aren’t I? Or…”

Tapering off, I become silent, gazing at the ground without really seeing while my imagination turns over the possible consequences. This really is all my fault. If I just… _watched_ myself, this would not be happening. I let myself become too impassioned with sticking it to a thoroughbred jerk-face.

“You need not worry. The Ambassador is a reasonable and clever woman, and I have yet to see her take anyone’s words at face value.” I hear Solas say. Glimpsing up, I see that he’s casually leaning back against his desk, facing me with one ankle crossing the other, before returning my gaze to the fidgeting fingers in my lap.

“Especially when it involves the nobility.” He adds, entirely sincere. I reply by continuing with my reticence, unsure if what he claims is true beyond his personal belief, as well as simply being at a loss for words because he had been listening. He didn’t have to; he could have ignored me or told me to take my blatherings elsewhere and I would have respected that.

_I had complained, ranted, and raved to Hallen long ago about how Alras kept torturing the grasshoppers, but when I looked over to him, he was brushing down the coats of his namesake without a sound, not daring to acknowledge I was there. Not while they could see._

“This… Lady Plourde. You have been employed by her before?” Solas asks, a statement posed as a question.

I nod. “Several times, sadly. She was one of my regular clients for this little, um… _nomadic_ business of mine.”

“Did you have many clients?”

I almost snort. “When I first started out, I became this sort of ‘secret’ among one or two people in each place I visited. I liked to count how many new faces bought from me, but word slowly spread around, and eventually I just gave up on keeping track how many different clients I got.” I feel the corners of my mouth cracking into a tiny smirk. “I counted to about a hundred before I stopped. Faces—or masks—tend to muddle together after a while.”

“And you were forced to put an end to it, despite your success.”

“Success is… a bit too strong of a word. More like ‘balancing on the edge between prosperity and poverty’, but yes. An unusually large bandit group stole nearly everything I had… it seemed too risky to try and start all over again, what with the rumors of a crazy darkspawn and all.” I explain, softly and tentatively. On the topic of riskiness, I take one and look up from my hands to Solas. His head is tilted as though in thought, expression as unreadable as always.

What am I doing?

Just this morning I was terrified to learn that I have repeatedly placed myself in precarious company, people with high standings, invaluable skills, and unquestionable influence, and now I’m here, rambling to one of those people _again_. They don’t need me pushing my problems onto them, and yet I am.

Why do I have to be such a hypocrite?

After the brief pause, Solas says: “The times in which we live are ones of breaking points and thinning lines, survival might mean making sacrifices. Your choice, no doubt, was sensible, in seeking refuge at Skyhold.”

Before I could form a reply, I’m startled to my feet by the sound of a door opening rather loudly, and both Solas and I look over to see the Inquisitor sauntering into the room with her golden hair swishing behind. I unconsciously take a few backward steps to be closer to the walls, prompted by the palpable and terrifying power that always seems to emanate from her being.

“Hey, Solas—Evuna! Good, you’re here, too.” She smiles at me, my eyes accidentally meeting her own. It snaps me out of my surprise and I bow to her. The center of my vision remains angled down when I straighten up, keeping Solas and the Inquisitor in my periphery as the latter continues. “We’re having a meeting later tonight in the War Room. Nothing too serious, just a debriefing on our next course of action.”

“Of course, Inquisitor.” Responds Solas, who has since meandered away from his desk. I, however, am _very_ unsettled, and it only gets worse when she faces me directly.

It’s hard to believe that one person can be so intimidating in most every instance, but so genial the moment a hand of cards and a drink is placed in front of her. Two very different sides of the same coin.

“Now, I can tell what you’re thinking and yes, I’d like _you_ to be there, too. I figured you might want to know which back end of Thedas I’d be dragging you off to ahead of time.” She lays bare, a hip popped to one side.

I knew something like this would happen eventually, just not so soon (it’s only been a _day_!), and not like this. Granted, I didn’t have a clue what I had gotten myself into exactly, but I guess I will find out soon enough. My morals won’t allow me to back out of this now—no matter how loudly the back of my mind screams ‘danger’.

“Yes… Inquisitor. Certainly.” I say, unable to hold back the waver in my voice.

The Inquisitor nods kindly, then turns on her heel to exit the same way she came. The door shuts loudly in her wake, trapping in the following quietness disturbed only by the happenings of the floors above.

Feeling awkward for some reason, I shuffle my feet. “Um, I should take my leave as well, ser. I have books to return upstairs. And… thank you. For listening, I mean.” I chew on my next words, indecisive on how to phrase them without sounding idiotic. “You didn’t have to and I really appreciate it. _Ma serannas_ , Solas.”

“It was nothing.” He mildly insists. A fragment of me wants to tell him that it was _not_ nothing—not to _me_ —but I let it go, padding across the room towards the stairwell. Somewhere along the way, I pass a table set against the wall that supports a tray of a meal’s remnants; I’m cruelly reminded of the hunger pangs partially responsible for my behavior today.

It only takes that split second of hesitation for Solas to notice, apparently.

“Help yourself, if you so choose. I am finished with it.” He offers. I look to him over my shoulder with uncertainty etched into my brows, watching him round the desk and pick up a book.

Well… as long as it would just go to waste otherwise…

“Are you sure? I-I don’t wish to impose…” I ask, knowing full well that I have been imposing ever since I stepped into the room. Solas gestures invitingly to the tray with an open palm, long fingers doing that constant and innate ability of making every action appear elegant.

Why are you looking at his hands again? Stop!

With the priorities of my attention reevaluated, I swipe the remaining half of a delectably soft bread roll from a plate and hold it close to my chest as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

I extend an apprehensive half-bow to Solas. “Thank you again, ser. I’ll get out of your hair now—oh, wait,” I freeze on the spot, “does… does that saying not count? Since you… uh, actually, nevermind. I’ll just… yeah.”

I pivot to the stairs, a stupid blush creeping up my face while a light chuckle resounds from behind.

-

The bread tastes half again as good as it is soft, and so I savor every bite with every step up the stairwell.

When was the last time I had something like this? The mess hall doesn’t hand out a lot of bread, but when it does, it’s tough and bland, clearly meant only to provide sustenance. This, however, was baked with care, proven by the delighted grin it puts on my face. It serves as a wonderful distraction from my most recent acts of foolishness.

Really, why did I say that? It was probably insensitive, and I just acted like a dolt!

At least he seemed to take in good humor…

The last piece of bread is swallowed when I reach the landing, where I scan for a sign of how I’m supposed to go about doing this. Skyhold isn’t exactly big on explicit instructions. Dorian’s little alcove is surprisingly empty of him, so relying on him to help me with mundane things isn’t an option this time. Thankfully, I find a plain-faced, elven librarian who accepts the two books without much ceremony, and I’m free to amble over to the mess.

Sitting down with yet another stew incorporating the vile vegetables known as carrots, I relish in the moment of not having to talk to anyone and vice versa, or dealing with racist prigs, or trying to stab a qunari with wooden blades… I’m about done with today, but I can’t be, no matter how much I just want to sleep. I’m not sure I have enough energy to even feel nervous about this meeting tonight, no less to attend it. Hopefully having some food in my system will give my brain the extra boost it needs to get through it.

These mere five minutes of stillness are all I’m granted (as I should have expected), brought to a mournful end when Agnes and Sessa place themselves on the empty benches across from me.

“Fancy seeing you here.” Announces the Rivaini of the pair, Agnes. Sessa says something as well in her bubbly manner, but I don’t catch it—I’m too preoccupied with having to resist the desire to faceplant into my bowl.

I’m starting to miss it when everyone preferred to overlook my existence. Things were certainly more straightforward that way.

I mumble a “hi” in return, unwilling to initiate small talk and idly stirring with my spoon.

“Something got you down?” Sessa inquires, much to my dismay.

“I’m just tired, I guess. I had a long day.” I shrug. The elves’ expressions shift, showing a sympathetic understanding.

“Yeah… us, too.”

They chatter between bites of food and among themselves, somehow content to let me not add a single word to the conversation. I would not be able to, anyway, because whatever topic they are discussing becomes a buzzing in the background.

I haven’t yet told them about this… possible business with the Inquisitor and her Inner Circle, assuming that my encounter with Lady Plourde had not endangered it. What would I even say? That I’m to leave at indeterminate points in time, for indeterminate _lengths_ of time with the ever-present chance of never returning? I can’t imagine that they would be distraught should they learn of it, though it’s still hard. I suppose I will know more at this meeting, where I can’t begin to predict what will happen. It could be a ploy to have me cornered and shipped off to a Circle Tower, for all I know, although that _does_ seem to be a bit of a stretch. My mind enjoys going to the worst scenarios.

“Hey, Evuna,” Sessa starts, suspending my contemplations, “we’re headed to the baths after this. Wanna come with?”

“Erm, no, I can’t… sorry. I still have some stuff to take care of, but thank you for offering.” I justify with a polite smile. I take this as an excuse to leave the table, pointing out how I’m finished with my meal (save for the carrots) and should resume my affairs, which I ‘forget’ to elaborate on. They bid me a farewell, as I do in return, then start heading back to the great hall. The only thing I know about the War Room is that it sounds absolutely menacing—I don’t know how to get there and I don’t want to bug Solas any more than I have already, so maybe I could wander around until I find it? That tactic usually works.

My dawdling steps are the consequence of not being in any hurry as I pass through the grounds, despite the wind picking up and the oncoming chill biting at the tip of my nose. Footfalls on spiky grass and compacted dirt eventually shifts to the stone stairs that take me up to the hall, where I linger inside the entryway.

Now… which door from here has the highest probability of getting me where I’m expected to be?

Just then, Cole pops into view next to me, giving me a slight fright and a reason to glance around at the faces of nondescript strangers to ensure that only I can see him—I have faith that Cole knows who is trustworthy, but my concern for his safety isn’t something I can suppress.

“I can show you.” He says, hat flopping when he angles his head back and to the side, indicating the way. I nod, smiling in legitimacy. The spirit blinks his bright blue orbs and starts leading me down the hall, weaving past the uncomfortable gatherings of people who somehow think it decent to stand in the middle of the only pathway. I follow Cole through one of the many side passages and into a rather fancy room that appears to be an office of some kind, albeit one that’s vacant. We continue on, removing my chance to gawk at the grand fireplace I would _love_ to read by, and take another door that brings us to a hallway with daunting doors at the other end—unquestionably, the War Room’s entrance. There’s an odd, gaping hole on one of the walls that allows for a broader view of the darkening, cloudy skies outside along with the unpleasantly-cold breeze.

At the halfway point, my feet refuse to take another step; the soles and toes attached to the stonework, fused together by the onset of panic crashing like a wave into a cliff.

I had thought myself too mentally exhausted to feel much else today, but the abrupt inability to breathe is a _very_ persuasive rebuttal.

This is the threshold where, should I cross it, so many different possible courses could be set with so many different possible outcomes where only the dwarf who holds the fate of the world in her palm knows which one is true, the dwarf who’s always shown kindness towards me… what are the chances of that just being a facade to gain my favor, only to toss it aside as soon as it’s advantageous? Would I be naive to believe there are none, or presumptive to believe it at all?

And she won’t be alone, instead surrounded by people who arguably hold just as much power.

It’s not an option to leave, to return to ambiguity and the familiarity of the unknown.

Unless it is? Turn tail? Free this place of the burden that is me?

No, I can’t consider this now, there’s no time—they (how many people are behind the door, how many eyes?) must be waiting on me, I’m almost late (and yet I’m still standing here, aren’t I?).

But would they _really_ wait for me? Why would they? I’m not one of them (and never will be).

I don’t belong here.

_I don’t belong anywhere._

It must be so obvious.

I feel something neither cold nor warm snake between my fingers and squeeze, and my arm instinctively tenses up at the strange sensation of a gentle (or constricting?) pressure encompassing my left hand. Looking down, I see that the other hand belongs to Cole.

The sight might as well be the same as witnessing a spider perform a waltz. Not because it’s _Cole_ , but because it’s _me_.

Hesitantly, my fingers curl around his to return the gesture, gripping tightly.

We stand like that for some time, hands entwined in the middle of the empty, dimming corridor. I focus only on that feeling and forget about everything else, breathing slowly, but shakily, to push past my tightened airway. Soon, the pounding in my ears subsides, uncovering the typical sounds of Skyhold, and I lift a heavy foot to take a tiny step forward, no longer paralyzed by my own nonsensical fears.

I’m still afraid, though.

“They’re waiting for you, but I don’t have to leave,” Cole says, “I can stay with you. They won’t see me.”

Words don’t seem to want to form in my mouth, so I’m resigned to simply nod. Hand in hand, Cole and I walk the rest of the way down to the doors. I pause just before it to pull Cole’s hand behind me, tucking it within my cloak. I know he said that no one will be able to see him but… the sight of anyone holding hands with a spirit is a damning one. It never hurts to add an extra layer of certainty.

How selfish of me. By wanting this, I endanger both of us.

My other hand raises, trembling in the air, and knocks against the door’s wooden surface. The smaller, more practical door embedded in the larger ones opens with a deep, echoing _click_ and reveals someone decorated with golden, ruffled sleeves; I’m not brave enough to glance at their face.

“Ah, you must be Lady Evuna! Please, come in. We will get started soon.” Greets a feminine voice accented as Antivan.

Since when have I _ever_ been a ‘lady’? Nevertheless, she guides me through the door, evidently unaware of my spirit companion in tow. There are other voices in the sunset-and-candle-lit room, talking casually, but with my head hanging low, all I see are feet, legs, and a few torsos gathered around an enormous table. I don’t want to see how many eyes are trained on me, how many are scrutinizing my every move.

Ignorance is bliss like that.

Spotting a section of the floor near a corner where there are no feet immediately around, I stand there with a silent Cole still to my left, leaving my free hand to anxiously fiddle with itself.

Someone clears their throat and the room falls quiet; I look up just enough from the cover of my hood to tell that it came from the Inquisitor.

“Fantastic, everyone’s here, so let’s begin!” She announces, cheery before turning to a somewhat more serious tone. “To recap, something weird’s going on with the Grey Wardens—possibly something to do with Corypheus, and Hawke knows a guy…”

Hawke? As the _Champion of Kirkwall_ Hawke? The rumors I have heard of her are… not exactly glowing.

“…in their ranks who can give us some insight. Now, he’s apparently not too popular among the other Wardens so he’s said to be hiding out in a smuggling cave in Crestwood.” The inquisitor points towards the table. My curiosity overpowers my nerves and I follow the line of her indication to a marked point on an extensive map. In doing so, I’m forced to become informed that some of the other bodies of the room belong to The Iron Bull, Varric, and two humans whose faces I don’t endeavor to see. I want to know who else is here and whether I know them or not, but that would probably make me look like a gawking idiot so I keep to the map instead.

Inquisitor carries on: “The problem? Crestwood’s been silent. No word, in or out. I’ve already sent Harding and some scouts ahead this morning to scope out the area, but my hunch is that their report isn’t going to look too pretty.”

“Well, if the Inquisitor’s got a hunch then, shit,” Varric remarks, “might as well go now.”

She laughs, though it’s colorless. “Not this time, I don’t want to do anything until we know it’s not a death trap. But if my hunch is right and I’m suddenly pulling you all out of Skyhold by the ears, it might be helpful to have a few days to prepare beforehand. Particularly since we’ve got ourselves a new tag along.”

My grip on Cole’s hand tightens when I feel the gazes land on me. Deep breaths, just give a polite smile and nod; I do, although it makes me feel like an imposter.

I’m glad she moves on relatively quickly, beginning by explaining the projected route from Skyhold. First, northwards through the Frostbacks, then up the Imperial Highway along the bunny ears of Lake Calenhad, and finally a straight shot to Crestwood.

And then she redirects the attention onto me _again_. “Evuna, you’ll be travelling with us until we get to the Inquisition camp, which will be wherever the scouts decide is the best place to set it up. There, you should have the supplies necessary to work your magic while the rest of us handle the ails of the area.”

She’s… speaking figuratively, right? I haven’t necessarily been _hiding_ my magic, but if the fact that I’m an apostate is learned by the wrong person, it could be bad. I suppose it will have to be a good enough sign that no one has tried to sic a templar on me. Yet.

“I know there’s not much information at the moment, but does anyone have questions?” Asks the Inquisitor, back to her lighthearted attitude.

“Are you… quite certain it’s wise to be bringing a civilian along?” Brings forth one of the humans—a blond one who seems vaguely familiar after I briefly flick over his face. “Pardon me for doubting, I’m only concerned about the potential ramifications.”

What a wonderfully delicate way to say: ‘are you sure you’re not signing her death warrant?’.

“Her alchemical skills are valuable and we need all the help we can get in any situation. Rest assured, Cullen, I believe we are more than capable of keeping her safe if need be.”

“Yeah,” The Iron Bull chimes in, “and besides, she does a decent job of doing that herself already.”

I feel their eyes on me again… please just something make them _stop_! The muscles of every part of my body are tensing up and I must be crushing Cole’s poor hand by now.

“Really? Wouldn’t have pegged you for a fighter…” Adds a gruff voice I remember as Blackwall’s. It’s quiet; he expects me to reply. I try to bring my head up fully, so as to not appear rude, but the second I take in all the faces that incline towards me, that _see_ me… the Inquisitor, Varric, The Iron Bull, Blackwall, Solas, the golden-ruffled Antivan, the armored human named Cullen, and Spymaster Leliana who _scares_ the _crap_ out of me… no, I can’t. It drops low again. I was better off not knowing, _why_ did I have to look? The only things it achieved was to wrack my limbs with violent trembles.

When I somehow manage to speak, it comes out little more than a mumble. “I’m not… not really, anyway. I just… know how to not die.”

“Then allow me to stand corrected.” Cullen says, and the Inquisitor continues on to answer people’s questions that _don’t_ involve me, giving me a break to release my held breath and steady my hammering heart. Cole, at one point, leans the slightest bit closer to me so that our shoulders nearly touch—it’s surprising to me how comforting it is… how the warmth and fuzziness breaks through the cracks of terror. Were it anyone else, I would have probably thought they were going to try something against me.

It’s all such a foreign feeling and I can’t decide if I should like it.

After a short, excruciating while, the meeting is brought to a close. I start following the trail filing out of the room, eager to be anywhere but here, except…

“Evuna, could you hang back for a bit?” The Inquisitor requests once I pass by her. My blood runs cold; Varric’s reassuring smile does nothing as he exits, and neither does the Inquisitor’s as she waits by the table with three others.

“She’s not going to hurt you. Doesn’t want to, either.” Cole reveals. _That_ , at least, reassures me a little, mostly due to it not being something Cole would lie about.

I furtively watch as Solas is the last to leave, the door closing behind and cornering me (and Cole) in the room with four remaining faces.

I hate everything about this. I hate everything about _today_ , where things just keep getting worse.

“Allow me to _formally_ introduce you to my advisors,” the Inquisitor starts and sweeps an arm out to the three humans, “Commander Cullen Rutherford, Spymaster Leliana, and Ambassador Josephine Montilyet.”

So the Antivan is the ambassador? She must abhor me if Lady Plourde kept true to her word.

If she does, she refrains from showing it because she says: “This must all be very new to you, Lady Evuna. I assure you, we want nothing but for you to feel welcome.” Her timbre carries a diplomatic smile. I wonder how long it will be until she drops it and chastises me… unless Solas is right about Josephine? I will have to wait and see, I suppose. Whichever is true is bound to come out eventually.

“Pleasantries aside, I wanted to settle some important matters. Would I be wrong to assume that you don’t own any armor?”

I shake my head. “Erm, no… I don’t, Inquisitor.”

I catch the ambassador scribbling her quill on what looks to be a handheld desk.

“Alright, that’s perfectly fine. What about weapons? To be clear, I don’t have any expectations for you to engage in combat whatsoever. But I also don’t want you to be defenseless.”

I reach up and behind to pull out the knife from my pack. “This is the only thing of the sort that I have… The Iron Bull calls it a cheese knife.” I admit, a nervous laugh escaping me. The Inquisitor snorts, and Josephine scribbles some more. I have no doubt that Cullen and Leliana are analyzing my every move, making mental notes of what kind of a threat I could pose.

I slip the knife back from whence it came so as to not give them any reason to arrest me.

“Good to know. We can have you situated with some equipment.” The Inquisitor orients to Josephine. “Josie, could you…?”

“I’ll see that the message is waiting for Master Harritt, Inquisitor.”

“You are an absolute _treasure_ , thank you.” She enthuses and turns to me again. “That’s about it, I think. For now. Any questions, comments, or concerns?”

Well, I certainly have a _lot_ of concerns, but I shove them away in an imaginary drawer.

“N-no… although I’m extremely grateful, Inquisitor.” I stammer with a courteous bow. They don’t need to know that guilt is the other predominant emotion, spawned from the notion of me using up even more of the Inquisition’s resources.

The Inquisitor finally dismisses everyone for the night and I cling to Cole’s hand like it’s my lifeline on the way out. My instinct is to run as far away and as fast as possible, but I keep my shaking legs under control.

However, Josephine pulls me aside as soon as we enter the office, making me nervous all over again.

“Lady Evuna, if Madame Plourde ever bothers you again, please, do not hesitate to let me know. Her behavior was unacceptable.” She tells me, and I’m speechless.

No one ever sides with the elf… no less me.

“Yes, um… of course. Thank you.” I say, at a loss for any other words (again). I continue on my separate way, mind unwilling to think about all of this new information. Not now, anyway—it would much rather wait for when I get some much-desired sleep.

I almost forget that I’m still dragging a spirit of compassion along until I suddenly find myself outside, in the dark, as a seemingly vulnerable little rabbit.

“Filthy fingers that trace from jaw to neck to thigh, pinned in place by panic and the pungent smell of his vices. Didn’t want to hurt him. He gave me no choice.” He says, voicing the dreadful memory. “Yes, I’ll stay with you. I can keep you safe.”

I give him a weak smile. My free arm wraps my cloak around more tightly for the cautious and hurried walk to my room, where I fall asleep the very moment my head lands on the pillow.

Today frigging sucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have but four declarations:  
> -Sorry this one took a little longer; I've been super busy with my classes and the writing for this chapter was... a bit delicate.  
> -Fun fact: a butterfly will happily drink your blood if given the chance.  
> -I will try my absolute best to not butcher the main plot too much.  
> -I love all of you <3 every single comment and kudos makes my day!


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